


Secrets, Lies, and Superheroes

by whiskygalore



Series: The Bodyguard Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actor Dean Winchester, Bodyguard Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Dean, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), Homophobic Language, M/M, Past dub-con (not between Dean and Cas), Potty-mouth boys, Protective Sam Winchester, So does Cas, Tattooed Cas, alternative universe, show-level violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 11:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21355273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskygalore/pseuds/whiskygalore
Summary: Daddy issues, mommy issues, abandonment issues, and a twisted sense of humor... Jason Todd and Dean Winchester have a lot in common. There’s no way Dean’s going to turn down the chance to play the Red Hood. But, between repeatedly playing out his own death scene, a maniacal director, his boyfriend and brother keeping secrets from him, and the reappearance of his mother after twenty-five years, he’s starting to think he’s bitten off more than he can chew this time.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, side pairing Sam/Jess
Series: The Bodyguard Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539556
Comments: 52
Kudos: 427
Collections: DCBB 2019





	Secrets, Lies, and Superheroes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas bigbang 2019. This is a sequel to I Will Alway Love You, my last year's DCBB entry, but it should be fine as a stand alone (I hope). Writing a sequel has been a whole new challenge for me. I know as a reader, sequels can be hit or miss, but I wasn't finished playing with these boys just yet, and I couldn’t resist continuing their story. I hope it doesn't disappoint.
> 
> I obviously don’t work in the movie industry and (unfortunately) have never been to comic-con so if I’ve screwed up technical details please just suspend disbelief and go with the flow, lol! 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to the mods for running this mammoth challenge. To Salt and Somer for putting up with my moaning. And also to Jld71 for her fab beta work, and to my artist, BlindSwandive, too who made excellent use of her green pen. And obviously HUGE thanks to BlindSwandive for all her hard work and gorgeous art!! She has been an absolute joy to work with, incredibly generous with her time and hugely supportive. I'm always lucky to work with great artists but I feel luckier than ever this year to work with someone so talented and kind. Her art is stunning... please go shower her with love!

** **

**ART LINK — [BlindSwandive](https://blindswandive.livejournal.com/91519.html)**

**Prologue**

He’s still watching. And waiting. Ever so patiently. It's been almost two years since he had Dean Winchester in his grasp. Since all his patience and years of obsessive planning had so very nearly paid off. It was simply bad luck that the boy had wriggled out of his clutches at the last moment. He’d been feistier than Alastair had expected. Perhaps that was partly his fault for falling into the trap of thinking of Dean as a soft and spoiled movie star, forgetting that he and his brother’s roots were planted firmly on the wrong side of the tracks. John Winchester had been a terrible father. Perhaps he hadn’t physically abandoned his children, not like their mother, but he might have well as done. If he hadn’t left those boys to fend for themselves so often, Dean Winchester, with his too pretty face, and skinny limbs, and his delectable air of desperation, would never have come to the attention of a predator like Alastair in the first place. Really, Dean should thank him for killing that pathetic excuse for a parent.

And perhaps if Winchester’s bodyguard hadn’t been quite so enamored of the boy, Alastair would have been the one to find Dean after he escaped. By that point, of course, Castiel Novak was more boyfriend than bodyguard. The ex-soldier had turned out to be a rather irritating fly in Alastair’s ointment. The timing should have been perfect to snatch Dean. He’d been practically alone in a country he didn’t know, his overprotective brother on his honeymoon, for once not glued to his side. The movie he was making was shooting in the wilds of Scotland and Dean was more vulnerable than he’d been since he was a teenager. 

And yet he’d still managed to slip through Alastair’s fingers. Thanks to that interfering idiot. At least Alastair had left Dean with a few pretty scars to remember him by.

Now, with his boyfriend and brother more protective than ever, Dean Winchester wouldn’t be easy to get to. Especially with Alastair’s face on most wanted lists all over the world. But that didn’t mean that Alastair would ever stop trying. Would ever stop manipulating and planning and laying traps. No, the boy and his friends would never know how close Alastair was. Always had been. Always would be. 

  
  
  


**CHAPTER ONE**

Dean spits the blood from his mouth, watches it spray through the air, spatter across the floor. Wrists strapped to crossed beams above his head, ankles bound together with coarse rope, he’s pinned and defenseless. His whip smart mouth and cock-sure attitude his only weapons. He grins, bloody and fake, at the madman swirling the tip of a silver blade through the rivulets of blood seeping from the wounds carved into his chest. An ice-cold shiver creeps down Dean’s spine when the man simply grins back. The glint in his pale eyes suddenly filling Dean with a sense of dark foreboding. 

“Your guardian angel seems to have deserted you, pumpkin,” his captor croons, pressing the edge of the knife into the soft dip of Dean’s belly. His eyes light up when Dean can’t help but grunt in pain. “You thought he’d come flying in here to rescue you from my dastardly clutches just in the nick of time, didn’t you?”

Dean says nothing. He did though. Hunter and hunted both know it. There’s still time, he prays, glancing at the wooden door of the warehouse, waiting for a last second reprieve. A wood splintering crash and a lecture on diving headfirst into danger would be more than welcome right now. Something in Dean’s gut tells him it’s already too late. 

“In all honesty,” the madman playing with him leers, “so did I. I guess he’s not the super hero either of you thought he was. Shame. For you, I mean.”

Dean screams when the knife plunges between his ribs. 

“This is it, my darling boy. This is the end. There are no heroes saving the day. No daring escape plans. No last-minute miracles. You’re going to die. Here. The light in those pretty green eyes is going to disappear forever and I’ll be the only one to witness it. Your protector, your friend, he’s too busy saving strangers to care about you.”

“S... screw you,” Dean manages to say, blood trickling from his lips. He struggles, ineffectually against his bonds as he feels the life slowly draining from his body. 

“Oh, kiddo, if I had the time I would, but I fear time is something neither of us have much of. What do you think the big man’ll do when he finds your lifeless body? You think he’ll cry for you? You think he’ll kill for you? Seek revenge?”

“I think.” Dean coughs, blood spraying from his mouth. His voice is hoarse and broken but he carries on regardless. “I think he’ll hunt you down and rip... rip you apart.”

Laughter fills the air, cruel, cold and insane. 

“Lambchop, you’re deluded if you think that goody two-shoes would harm a hair on my head just for you. He doesn’t care. Not about you. Not about anything but his own self-grandiose interests. If he did... he’d be here.”

The truth of the words echoes in Dean’s head as the knife trails down his chest. Dean’s eyes go wide before fluttering shut and…

“And cut! Jesus Christ, what a pile of crap. I’m calling an early lunch, people!”

Dean takes two deep breaths before opening his eyes and lifting his head. Around him the sound stage bursts to life, the heavy silence of his drawn-out death quickly buried below the commotions of the crew rushing to lunch.

“Hey man, you okay?” Chris, doesn’t usually step out of character so quickly but there’s concern on his face, below the thick layers of Joker make-up.

Dean’s flinch when Chris reaches out to touch him is involuntary but unmistakable.

“It’s okay, I’ve got him,” another voice says. Chris nods, and steps out of the way. Perhaps guessing how vulnerable Dean feels right now, maybe figuring the guy who was pretending to kill him a second ago, isn’t the best person to help. 

“You okay, man?” It takes a few seconds for Dean to focus on Stuart, the prop master, the guy in charge of freeing him from his bonds. Dean may not be strapped down quite as tightly as it appears on-screen but he’s going nowhere on his own. 

“Dean?” Stuart says, meaty hand surprisingly gentle on Dean’s chest. “We’re gonna get you down, okay?”

Dean manages a nod. His mouth still thick with fake blood and throat rough with take after take of screaming. 

“God, Marv should have called a break twenty minutes ago, your muscles are gonna be shot to shit. Okay, hold on.”

Stuart unties Dean’s ankles first, fingers deftly unraveling the knots he tied hours ago. When he’s sure that Dean’s got his feet steady below him, Stuart grabs a box to stand on so he can undo the straps around Dean’s wrists. 

“Well,” a familiar voice says from behind Stuart’s shoulder. “You look like crap.”

Dean swears under his breath. Sam was supposed to be in meetings all day. He wasn’t supposed to be around to watch this. “It’s called make-up, Sam, and acting.”

Dean might have more chance of fending off Sam’s overprotective brother mode if his voice didn’t sound like he’d been gargling with razor blades. It would also help if didn’t face-plant the second Stuart freed his wrists. 

“Goddamn it, Dean,” Sam says, wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist. He takes Dean’s sluggish weight from Stuart, who’d saved him from flopping in an undignified heap on the floor. “Why didn’t you ask for a break? You’re not a fucking extra, you’re a leading actor. They’re lucky to have you in this crappy movie.”

“It’s not a crappy movie,” Dean grumbles. Pins and needles are shooting down his arms, his knees are jelly and he’s lost all feeling in his hands; his body needs a few minutes to find its equilibrium. But more than that, he needs some peace and privacy. A little time alone to shake Jason Todd from his head. 

Dean’s always found it jarring to be dragged suddenly from his headspace when he’s shooting a scene, but when the scene is this intense, and far too close to real life for comfort, the aftermath leaves him feeling like he’s been flayed alive for everyone to see. He’d never let it slip to Sam how raw these movie scenes are leaving him, but he can’t hide the physical signs as easily as the mental ones. 

“Marv’s got a real bug up his ass,” Stuart confides to Sam, under his breath, either so Dean can’t hear or on the off-chance some of Marv’s faithful lapdogs don’t get wind of his bitching. Marv has a few favorite hangers-on but most of the crew can’t stand his attitude. He’s already laid into a PA and a rigger today for questioning his orders. Dean’s gonna make sure they’re okay just as soon as his legs can hold him up and his head stops buzzing.

“Word has it, the studio is demanding all these reshoots because he fucked up. He’s costing them a fortune.” 

Sam huffs as Dean shrugs off his supporting arm and finally takes his own weight. More or less. He might have staggered there a little, but he’s fine. Really. 

“They never should have hired that talentless egomaniac in the first place,” Sam complains, not for the first time. “If Dean hadn’t been so desperate to play this stupid role-”

“It’s not stupid,” Dean steps in to defend Jason Todd. Otherwise known as a Robin. Otherwise known as the Red Hood. “I love this character so lay off.”

“Yeah,” Stuart adds. “Everyone loves the character, and you. I heard that why we need the reshoots. Apparently, there wasn’t enough Jason in the movie for the test audiences. Or enough sympathy for his storyline.”

“If Marv had kept his greasy hands off the script it would've been fine,” Dean says, his legs working well enough now to head slowly towards his trailer, Sam and Stuart on either side of him like parents trailing a wayward toddler. 

“Everyone and their mother could see the asshat was focusing on the wrong damn story,” Stuart points out. Stuart’s been in the business for nearly thirty years so Dean wouldn’t argue with him even if he didn’t agree, which he does. Dean’s never wanted to punch a director more than Marvin Metatron (not named after the transformer, Dean had asked) in his life and he’s worked with Fergus Crowley. Egomaniac directors he can deal with, egomaniac directors mangling his character he can’t. “The audience was always gonna love you, even if you're not the hero. He was an idiot to try and streamline your plot.”

“And you’re an idiot for letting him treat you like crap, Dean,” Sam butts in. “You’re not powerless. If you’re hurting, ask for a fucking break. You’re not Brando, man. Method is not the way to go here.”

“I’m fine,” Dean snaps, pulling a face as he wipes the blood from his lips. The stuff doesn’t taste great. “I want this scene over and done with, and if I keep asking for breaks every five minutes we’ll never wrap.”

Thankfully they’ve reached Dean’s trailer, so Stuart isn’t subjected to any more brotherly bitching. He mentions something about ice and painkillers before he ambles off to grab lunch but Dean is too busy persuading his legs that the steps really aren’t that high to pay much attention.

Dean beelines for the sofa when he’s safely inside, collapsing onto his back with a relieved sigh. When he looks up Sam’s staring down at him with a constipated expression on his face. Given all the fiber he eats, Dean doubts his brother-slash-manager-slash-lawyer-slash-big brooding pain in the ass, is actually constipated which can only mean one thing; he’s about to bitch Dean out.

“Dean...”

Dean sighs loud, long, and pointedly. 

Sam narrows his eyes. “If Cas was here you wouldn’t be playing the damn martyr. You’d be taking breaks and looking after yourself.”

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” Dean retorts. “He’s busy.” Which is true. Cas has been busy a lot lately. Not that Dean’s complaining. He doesn’t expect Cas to hold his hand every minute of the day. He’s not even officially Dean’s bodyguard anymore so why would he want to hang around when Dean’s working. 

“Did you tell him what scenes you were shooting today?” Sam shoots back, sounding more like the snotty teenage brat he was a decade ago, rather than the grown man he is now. 

“No, I didn’t,” Dean says, through gritted teeth. “He’s got a damn business to run.” 

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, his eyebrows doing some weird dance that Dean tries to ignore. 

“We’re not joined at the hip, y’know,” Dean snaps. “He has more important things to do than babysit my ass, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam,” Sam says, reflexively, “and that’s bullshit and you know it.”

Dean huffs and glares. Sam continues to loom, arms crossed.

“Look,” Dean eventually says, resigned to the fact that Sam won’t let this drop, and wishing he’d cleaned the fake blood from his face before he sat down. Seeing his brother resemble the victim of a serial killer probably isn’t helping Sam’s mood any. “This scene... Cas had nightmares for weeks after he watched us shoot it the first time, okay? Me, tied up, tortured and killed... it’s a little close to the bone. For all of us. You included. There’s no point in all of us having to deal with this crap over and over.”

Sam’s expression, as Dean expected, thaws into something far too sympathetic for comfort. “Dean,” he starts to say. Dean holds his hand up and stops him in his tracks. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“It’s okay, Sam. _ I’m _ okay. I just want this scene done. With as little fuss as possible.”

Sam, for once, he bites his tongue, but it’s obvious he’s unhappy. 

Dean closes his eyes so he can better ignore Sam’s worried expression. He knows this is fucked up. And he knows if —and let’s be honest, with his inability to lie to his boyfriend, that _ if _ is undoubtedly a _ when— _ Cas finds out about today’s shitfest, he's going to be pissed. But seriously, there’s only so much heartfelt concern that Dean can cope with. 

It’s not like Dean isn’t aware that his head is still screwed up. Not badly. He’s definitely not suffering from PTSD or anything major, despite what Cas and Sam keep trying to imply. Jesus, it’s not like he went through hell or anything. People go through worse trauma every damn day. He’s just a little... jumpy. A little more on edge than usual. Not sleeping particularly well. 

But honestly, he was kidnapped, taunted, and tortured by a psycho-stalker who gloated about killing his dad. Who wouldn’t have the occasional bad dream after that?

And anyway, Dean’s used to rolling with the punches when life smacks him in the face. He’s been through plenty rough times before and always come out the other side more or less in one piece. At least now he has Cas, his bodyguard turned boyfriend turned love of his fucking life by his side. Dean’s under no illusions; without Cas he would be dead by now, one way or another. But that’s a lot of pressure to pile on a guy. And Cas has his own crap to deal with. His own secrets and nightmares. He doesn’t need Dean crying on his shoulder twenty-four hours a day. 

Not that Dean needs to do that. Because he’s _ fine._

Admittedly, he can see why Sam thinks he made a mistake signing up for this movie. But he has to work, goddamnit, he can’t just sit on his ass feeling sorry for himself. And honestly, it’s easier to throw himself into playing a character like the Red Hood than deal with his own issues. 

Despite Sam and Cas’s doubts, this movie should have been awesome. Dean was as excited as a little kid with his first dog-eared comic book when he read the original script. 

And, contrary to what everyone seems to think, Dean’s never desperately wanted to play Batman. He thinks the guy’s a bit of a douchebag. Okay, it’s a shame his parents were offed when he was a rugrat, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a self-centered dick, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and with a black and white set of morals that only rich people can afford to have. Nah, Dean could never hero-worship someone with that much power, ego, and money, no matter how flash his car. Idris is welcome to the Caped Crusader.

But the Red Hood, he’s different. Ever since he read the comic books when he was a teenager, Dean has had a bit of a crush on Jason Todd. Batman’s doomed boy wonder is conflicted, smart, vulnerable, twisted and has abandonment issues that Dean identifies with more than he will ever admit, even to himself. 

When the opportunity arose to play him, Dean jumped at the chance. The screenplay was well written, the dialogue snappy; the movie promised to be spectacular. In retrospect, he should have taken a minute to think about how playing out his death scene would affect him, and Cas. And when there was a last-minute change of director in favor of Marv Metatron, he should have listened to Sam and backed out.

Marv is a tool. A tool with an inflated ego and a piss-poor sense of storytelling, who, depending on his mood, either wants to bone Dean or fire him. Now, working in the weird and wonderful business that is show, Dean is used to that. He can handle temperamental directors without a blip in his blood pressure. What he struggles with is directors who mangle a great movie-script and turn a complex character into a one-dimensional bad guy. Dean’s never had so many battles with a director in his life. It’s fucking exhausting.

It’s a wonder they managed to wrap shooting without trading blows. Well, without publicly trading blows. There was a slight altercation behind the catering truck that the producers legally banned Dean, Marv and the handful of witnesses from talking about. But three weeks behind schedule and a million or two over budget, they had finished filming and Dean thought that was that... bar the awkward press junket when he would have to pretend to love the movie and not rant about how Marv the Moron had ruined an amazing character. 

But, after the studio and test audience had seen Marv’s rough cut, the shit had hit the fan. So, now Dean and Marv are back working together, both trying not to be the one to throw the first punch. 

It’s typical Dean Winchester luck that this scene needs reshot. The first time Jason was killed at the hands of the Joker, Cas had been on set the entire time and the nightmares he’d had afterwards were worse than the ones Dean had hidden. Cas had woken sweating, tearful and panicked for weeks afterwards. He’d doubled his therapist appointments for a couple months which Dean felt freaking awful about. So, no, Dean isn’t putting either of them through that again. No matter how pathetic Sam’s puppy-dog eyes are, or how mad Cas is bound to be later. Dean can tough it out. 

Of course, it would be easier if the director wasn’t actively trying to make his life hell. 

“Well, I’m going to talk to Marv,” Sam says, a challenge in his voice that dares Dean to argue with him. Dean honestly doesn’t have the energy. 

He flaps his hand in a whatever gesture.

“Any chance you could grab me something to eat while you’re out there defending my honor?” is all he says. He’s not especially hungry, but he’s dead on his feet and he figures that food can’t hurt. When he thinks about it, he can’t actually remember eating anything all day. Dean knows just how worried Sam is when he leaves without bitching. He’d at least expected a dig about diva actors not being capable of walking to the food truck themselves. 

On his own at last, Dean closes his eyes, and does some of the stupid breathing exercises Cas has been trying to teach him. Thanks to his therapist, Cas is into mindfulness and some douchie yoga crap, and although Dean thinks it’s ninety percent bullshit, he’ll take any help he can right now. Playing Jason Todd is awesome, but it’s also a mindfuck. The dude has too many issues that Dean can relate to. Mommy issues, daddy issues and a knowledge of life on the streets that Dean doesn’t particularly want to remember in any great detail. 

He tries not to compare the Joker and Alastair but the similarities are there. 

And, while he’d be the first to agree that acting isn’t really hard work, not compared to what most honest people have to do to earn a paycheck, it does take a toll. Sometimes physically, sometimes mentally and sometimes, like today, both. 

It’s not so bad with a director that understands an actor can’t switch emotions off and on at the drop of a hat. Or Dean can’t anyway. He lives his emotions. If his character is getting the stuffing beaten out of him, so is Dean. Even if punches are pulled and bruises are faked, Dean’s brain and body reacts like they’re real. And at the end of the day he limps away exhausted and aching even if it’s all make-believe. 

He’d never complain about his job. Acting is a fucking dream compared to working manual labor for minimum pay twelve hours a day, but... sometimes, especially lately, he thinks he could easily walk away from the whole Hollywood rollercoaster. Especially when he expends every ounce of energy he has in a role and the movie still ends up a steaming pile of horseshit. This time, he truly thinks, if Marv doesn’t nail it, he’s going to sic Cas on him. 

And Cas can be a scary son of a bitch when he wants to be. Even if he tries not to let Dean see it. Behind his boyfriend’s yoga-loving facade lies a steel core. And a possessiveness that Dean laughs at, but secretly finds hot as hell. Part of him does wish that Cas was here right now, glaring at Marv the Moron like he’s secretly planning how to kill him and dispose of the body. But... yeah, if Dean has his way Cas isn’t allowed back on set until after the Joker’s killed Jason Todd, again. 

Dean barely touches lunch when Sam finally appears with it. Partly because he doesn’t have much of an appetite and partly because Sam’s almost squashed the sandwiches into an unrecognizable mush. 

“I don’t know who the hell that talentless dickhead thinks he is,” Sam rants as Dean watches on bemused. It’s not often that Sam rants. And usually when he does it’s at Dean, so this is kind of entertaining. “It’s like he thinks we’re fucking amateurs. Does he know how hard the studio begged you to do this? Does he know how much they’re paying you? Does he really think he can threaten me?”

That grabs Dean’s attention. “Whoa, wait, what? That douche-nozzle threatened you?”

“What?” Sam has his phone in his hand now, flicking through his contacts. “Oh, no, not really. He threatened you, I guess.”

“Oh, peachy, Sam.” Dean rolls his eyes, his head thunking back against the seat rest again. “Thanks for not making the situation any worse.”

“I didn’t make the situation worse,” Sam snaps. Dean watches, with his eyebrows raised, as his brother take an obvious deep breath and count to three. “Okay, I may have made the situation a little worse. But not deliberately. I was reasonable, he’s an egotistical jackass. Plus, there were witnesses. Half the crew heard him badmouth you.”

“Great, Sam, just great.” Dean sighs.

A knock on the door interrupts. “They need you on set now, Mr. Winchester.”

“It’s Dean,” Dean shouts back automatically, sitting up “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Sam, poking at buttons on his cellphone, flashes Dean a sympathetic smile as he heaves himself off the sofa to visits the bathroom before he heads across the set. By the time he leaves his trailer, Sam is in full on professional-pissed-lawyer mode, laying in to someone on the phone. 

“Ah, so nice of you to join us, Mr. Winchester,” Marv smarms, when Dean arrives. 

It’s been less than five minutes since he was called, they’re still setting up, and Dean’s not late. He keeps his mouth shut though. 

“Okay, now we’re all _ finally _ here perhaps we can get to work,” Marv says. “Prop guy? I need Jason Todd tied up again.”

“I thought we were done with that scene?” Stuart says, walking up behind Dean and studying the shooting schedule in his hand. 

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” Marv snaps. “And we’re not done until Mr. Winchester here does us all a favor and remembers how to act. Make-up? Can you do something with him?”

Debbie and Annie are on Dean in an instant, hands working quickly to fix Dean’s make-up, tongues working quicker to complain in whispers about Marv’s attitude.

It’s a long afternoon. Dean spends a lot of it tied up. Stuart, bless him, unties him at every opportunity, ignoring Marv’s complaints about overpaid prima-donnas. At one point the set medic insists on dosing Dean up with painkillers and making him sit down for ten minutes with ice packs on his shoulders and wrists. Sam looms over them, scowling at Marv until the director storms off set and returns in an even worse mood. 

Dean pours every last scrap of emotion he has into Jason Todd, until even Marv can’t pick fault. 

And even though it’s late in the day, even though they’ve all been at work for over nine hours already and they’re due back here tomorrow at seven, Marv calls for the crew to set up the next scene. The atmosphere, already cold, turns bitter. The crew, understandably tired and irritable, is ready for mutiny.

Usually Dean would attempt to lighten the mood, but his patience and energy are stretched thin. It’s taking all his restraint not to go full on Brando, step into the Red Hood’s shoes and punch the director in his oily face. 

Grudgingly, with barley hidden mutters, they move onto the next scene. 

Jason is on his own, escaped from his bonds, the Joker gone with bad guy cackle and flair. Jason has to make it out of the warehouse before the Joker’s bomb blows the place to smithereens. He only has seconds, and he can’t do anything but crawl, his legs smashed, his chest bleeding in too many places to count. It’s a futile endeavor. He’s too slow. The warehouse too big. The bomb counting down too fast. He’s dying one way or another. Unless Batman shows up in time. He won’t. 

Dean spends over an hour dragging himself across the cement floor. Coughing blood, facing death in the face, falling apart. Every time he glances across at the director’s chair, Marv barely seems to be watching him or the screens. Just keeps calling for more and reset and again and again at suitable intervals. Sam disappeared a while ago with his phone, and Dean’s temper is frayed. 

They’re halfway through a take when Marv’s raised voice cuts through the silence. “I asked you for a cappuccino with an extra shot and a dusting of cinnamon, I mean really... how hard is that?”

It takes a second for that to break through Dean’s concentration. And another second for it to sink in that Marv just ruined a take he wasn’t even watching to yell at a kid for messing up his coffee order. 

Dean stops dead from where he’s pulling himself across the floor, then slowly pushes up to his feet. He turns and stares at Marv across the sound stage. Marv isn’t looking in his direction. He’s too busy tearing a strip off the poor PA right there in front of everyone. For his coffee order being wrong. The PA, Lewis, baby-faced and trembling, isn’t any older than nineteen and, if Dean is any judge, he’s about two seconds away from bursting into tears. 

The last thread of Dean’s patience snaps. Suddenly and violently. 

“Dude,” Dean growls, storming across the room. “What the fuck?”

Marv stops mid-word and turns his scathing glare on Dean. “I’m sorry? Did you want something, Winchester?”

Dean doesn’t stop walking until he’s pushed in between Marv and Lewis, which means he’s about three inches away from the director and looming over him in a way that could be threatening. That Dean hopes is threatening. Marv blinks, slow and toad-like. Too stupid or too arrogant to recognize the danger. 

“Did I want something?” Dean repeats, incredulously. “Well, I want you to act like a professional but clearly that ain’t gonna happen. How about you just not be a giant dick? Is that too much to ask?” 

“How about you keep your nose out of this, get back down on the floor and do what you’re being paid to do,” Marv says. 

“Being paid to do?” Dean bristles. “Rich coming from the guy who just ruined a take, everyone’s time, _ and _ the studio’s money, to pitch a bitch-fit about his freaking coffee.”

“I wasted time and money? _ Me _?” Marv puffs up his chest. “Everyone here knows that if you weren’t an utter cheeseball of an actor, we would have been finished hours ago.”

Dean’s fingers tighten into a fist at his side. 

“It’s not my acting that’s the problem,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “The studio isn’t demanding reshoots because of my acting.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marv asks, a smarmy smile slicked on his face. 

And fuck him. Dean hasn’t always been the most confident actor in the world, but he’s proud of the work he’s put into playing Jason Todd. He knows it’s not his fault Marv’s movie sucks.

Marv carries on regardless of Dean’s stormy expression and clenched fist. “You’re a lightweight, Winchester. Only good at romcoms and flashy action flicks. You wouldn’t be able to find the depth in a character with a flashlight and a shovel. My movie— “

“Your movie,” Dean interrupts, “your movie is a steaming pile of cow dung. I know it. The studio bigwigs know it. Everyone here knows it. And it’s not because of the acting. Mine or anyone else’s. It’s no-one’s fault but yours. You took an awesome script and turned it into your own fucked-up story that makes no sense. You treat your on-screen characters the same way you treat everyone else on set... like crap. You’re a garbage director and a garbage human-being. If it was up to me, you’d have been replaced on this movie months ago.”

“It’s not up to you, is it?” Marv yells back at Dean, face tomato red and spittle flying everywhere. “Because you’re no-one. You’re just a... a cock-sucking whore with— “

Dean doesn’t notice he’s swung his fist back to throw a punch until someone catches it. He’s so angry, the blood pounding in his ears, violence dancing in his fingertips, that he twists away out of their hold before he realizes it’s Cas. 

Cas stands, hands raised in front of him, palms towards Dean. When he speaks his voice is horse-whisperer calm. “Dean, he’s not worth it.”

Dean’s trembling... anger, fear, adrenaline, coursing through his system. Time flickering like a bad dream at the edge of his consciousness. Cas takes a step towards him, hurt flickering in his eyes when Dean takes a step back. 

“Just take a breath, Dean,” Cas says, voice low. “Remember where you are.”

Right, remember where he is. Not locked away in a basement. Not facing Alastair. Not fighting for his life. He’s on a film set. Surrounded by cameras. By dozens of people watching him melt down. Crack up. Dean breathes in deep and slow, only noticing how tight his chest is when air finally reaches his lungs. His shoulders slump. Exhaustion replacing the adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

“Fuck,” he says and Cas steps towards him again, clasping his hand to Dean’s shoulder. 

“It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

Dean nods, coming back to himself. “Sorry.” Shame heats his cheeks as he looks at the sea of faces around them, some staring at him, some scowling at Marv who’s half hidden behind his AD. 

“Sorry, everyone,” Dean says, louder this time, not just for Cas’s ears. “I guess the Red Hood’s just a little too twisted up in my melon right now, huh?” Dean laughs, it’s not his best acting, but it cracks the danger-edged atmosphere. There’s an almost audible exhalation of held breath. 

“Well,” Marv says, stepping out of his hiding place, and brushing himself down even though Dean hadn’t laid a finger on him. “Now that Mr. Winchester has— “

It’s Cas who cuts him off this time, releasing his hold on Dean’s shoulder and crowding into the director’s space, voice dropping so low even Dean can’t hear what’s being said. He does, however, see Marv’s face blanch. One of these days Dean’s going to have to ask Cas what he says to people that turns them the color of salt. 

“As I was about to say,” Marv coughs and continues, voice trembling as much as his hands, even though he tries to hide it. “Let’s wrap for the day. It’s late. And I don’t think Mr. Winchester is likely to produce anything we can use now.”

Even with Cas breathing down his neck, the little dickweed can’t resist making digs at Dean. He’s either brave or very stupid. And Dean doesn’t think there’s a brave bone in his body. 

As Marv flounces off set, Cas sends him a killer glare, one that Dean hopes promises future retribution. Not that Dean wants Cas to punch or otherwise maim the director in any way… other than how he really does. 

“Dean,” Cas says, hand firm against the small of his back. “We need to leave.”

“Y’know,” Dean says, allowing Cas to usher him away. “I usually complain when you growl at people for breathing on me or whatever, but if you want to growl at Marv, or, I dunno… maybe throat punch him, I promise I’ll be understanding this one time.”

“Dean,” Cas says, and he’s not laughing, not even a tiny bit as he escorts Dean to his trailer. “I’m angry that you lied to me. I’m angry that you thought you _ needed _ to lie to me. And I’m incredibly angry that you let that asshole treat you so badly. Rest assured we _ are _ going to talk about this later.”

“I’m not a kid, Cas,” Dean bites back, the initial relief he felt at seeing Cas rapidly deserting him. “Don’t talk to me like you’re my goddamn dad. What the hell are you doing here anyway? Sam been telling tales out of school, huh?”

“Sam, as always, has your best interests at heart, which is just as well considering the disregard you have for your own wellbeing,” Cas snaps back, furious. 

Dean sighs and squares his shoulders ready for another argument, but then, to Dean’s surprise, Cas stops just as they reach the door to his trailer, and exhales with a deliberation that Dean knows means he’s resetting his temper. 

Compartmentalizing, Cas calls it. Shutting down his emotions, Dean thinks is more honest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the feeling that Cas is hiding his feelings.

Dean doesn’t relax when Cas lays his hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Why did you come here then?” Dean asks, shrugging away from Cas as he opens his trailer door. He stops short when he sees Sam sitting on his sofa. It’s not his brother’s presence that’s disconcerting, it’s his expression. The haunted shadow of his eyes. 

“Sam,” Dean says, stomach swooping with fear. “What’s wrong? Is it Jess? Elle?” God, if anything happened to his sister-in-law or little niece Dean doesn’t know what he’d do. 

Sam shakes his head firmly, mouth twitching into a forced smile that only sets Dean further on edge.

“No.” Cas steps into the trailer behind Dean, closes the door. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” Dean asks, confused. A dark thought creeps out of the shadows of his mind. “Is it... is it Alastair? Is he back? Has he hurt someone?” Someone Dean cares about. It’s what he’s been dreading. Alastair finally figuring out the way to get to Dean is through his loved ones. 

“No,” Sam speaks up at last. “No, Dean, it’s nothing like that. It’s nothing... nothing bad, I swear. No one’s hurt.”

“Then what the fuck is it, Sam? You’re freaking me out here.”

“We should discuss this at home,” Cas says. When Dean turns to him, he’s staring pointedly at Sam rather than Dean. 

“No, fuck that,” Dean argues. “Tell me now.”

Sam and Cas exchange heavy looks that only piss Dean off more. He’s fed up being kept in the dark and fed bullshit. “Tell me,” he repeats. It’s a demand not a request. “If it’s not Alastair that’s got you both stressed out, what is it?”

“Dean,” Sam says, eyes wide. “It’s Mom, she’s back.”

** _Dean, aged 4_ **

Dean’s four and a half, gonna be five soon. He’s got a little brother who screams loud and smiles all gummy and wet. His dad works real hard and his mom makes the best pb and j sandwiches... cuts the crusts off and everything. At least, she used to. She used to take him to the park and sing him to sleep at night too. She hasn’t done that for a while. 

Dean’s four and a half and he knows how to make his baby brother stop crying. And how to stop his mommy crying too. 

Dean’s four and a half, nearly five when his mommy kisses his cheek, ruffles his hair and walks out the door, face wet and bags weighing her down. 

She leaves Dean all alone in the house, Sammy asleep upstairs in his crib. Tells him ‘take care of Sammy for me, Dean. Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna be home soon.”

Daddy doesn’t come home for a long time. Not until Dean’s tummy hurts so bad he thinks he might throw up and Sammy’s face is red from screaming. Dean can’t get him to stop. Not even when he climbs up into the crib beside him, holds him tight, wipes the snot from his cheeks and sings the way Mommy does.

Dean’s five and a half, nearly six, and he knows how to make him and Sammy a pb and j sandwich, and pour just enough milk into the cheerios not to make them too soggy. Daddy works real hard, and says Dean’s a big boy now, too old for bedtime lullabies and coddling. Dean’s stopped asking when Mommy’s coming home because Daddy yells when he does.

Dean’s five and a half and he knows the smell of whisky and the sound of Daddy crying.

Dean’s five and a half, nearly six, when his daddy bundles him into the Impala along with Sammy in his car seat and tells him they’re going to find a new home. A better one. One where there aren’t ghosts and demons to haunt them. It’s dark and Sammy’s snoring softly, head tucked against the cushion of his car seat when Dean realizes they’ve left behind his teddy bear. Bear is brown and soft and missing one ear and a half an eye because he got too close to the fireplace one night, and he’s Dean’s best friend in the world. Apart from Sammy. 

Daddy says it’s too late, Dean, we can’t go back now. Don’t be a baby. You’re too old for stuffed toys and fairytales. 

Dean almost can’t breathe when he thinks about poor Bear, left behind, alone and sad. No one to sing to him, no one to hug. No one to love him. Dean sobs, silently so Daddy can’t hear, his shoulders shaking, face tucked against the hard-plastic side of Sammy’s car seat.

  
  
  


**CHAPTER TWO **

The ride home in the car is tense. Silent. No one had said a word since they left the studios. Cas is right, it wasn’t the time or place for the conversation. But the car ride also gives Dean time to stew. Time for his thoughts to run wild. 

Mary Winchester is back. That’s about as much as Dean knows. Sam has a letter gripped in his hand. He tried to pass it to Dean. But Dean can barely look at it, never mind touch it. 

He showered in his trailer, washed away the dirt and death of Jason Todd. The annoyances of a lousy day. But the cool water did nothing to soothe the itch crawling across his skin. Underneath his skin.

His mom. Dean doesn’t look at Cas in the front passenger seat. Won’t look at Sam sitting beside him. He stares out of the window. Sees nothing. 

For once, Dean doesn’t thank his driver. Doesn’t smile at Max, the security guard waiting for him at the front door. He strides through the empty hallway of his home, his and Cas’s home, until he reaches the kitchen. He’s grabbed a bottle of malt whisky and a glass from the cupboard before Sam and Cas have caught up to him. 

For once they know better than to bitch about his drinking. 

He walks around the island unit in the center of the room, placing the barrier very deliberately between himself and his brother and boyfriend, downs two fingers of chest-burning whisky and refills his tumbler before he speaks. “Tell me,” he says to Sam. 

“She wrote,” Sam starts, holding up the letter.

“I figured,” Dean says, snide, he’s being an asshole. He knows he is, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

“Dean, give Sam a chance to explain,” Cas says. Reprimands, like a school teacher and Dean’s an unruly kindergartener. Dean glares at him. 

“I got a letter a few weeks back,” Sam starts again.

Dean interrupts again. “Weeks? _ Weeks _, Sam?”

“Jesus, Dean, shut up and let me tell you, okay!” Sam’s rattled, pacing the width of Dean’s kitchen now. Dean takes a long drink to stop from snapping back. 

“I got a letter a few weeks back. From Mom. From someone saying they were her anyway. Asking to meet. Asking for a chance to talk. With both of us.”

Dean’s grip tightens on the whisky glass but he keeps his mouth shut. Jaw clenched hard enough for a jagged pain to shoot through his skull. 

“I didn’t tell you because I had to make sure it was genuine, okay? I had to make sure it was really her. It’s not the first time someone’s faked something like this.”

God Almighty! Dean takes another drink. People pretend to be his mother? Jesus! Why?

“I asked Charlie— “

“Charlie?” Dean interrupts. “Hold up, Charlie knows about this?”

“Charlie can do things with a computer we’ve never heard of Dean. I needed her.”

Dean scowls. “Charlie landed that AD gig in Vancouver. You shouldn’t have dragged her back into our shit.” 

Sam scowls right back. “Charlie’s our friend. She cares about you. She wanted to help. Anyway, Charlie looked into it, tracked her down. Cas’s guys helped too.”

“Jesus,” Dean growls. “Am I the last one to fucking hear about this?”

“Dean,” Cas speaks up again. “Please calm down. Shouting at Sam isn’t helping. Your brother was simply trying to protect you from—”

“I don’t need my kid brother protecting me,” Dean yells. God, he’s pissed. Too pissed to think rationally. “Jesus, I’m sick of y’all acting like I’m a fragile fucking flower. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was five years old, god fucking damnit!” 

The tumbler in his hand goes flying across the room, shattering against the wall, and raining down over the floor in a thousand fractured pieces. His shoulders are heaving, heartbeat pounding loud and fast in his ears. He slaps his hands down on the counter top, the sting barely registering. He can feel the suffocating weight of Cas and Sam watching him. Christ, if they didn’t think he was on the verge of a breakdown before they will now. 

It takes a moment for anyone to react. And then Cas stretches across the kitchen island, his hands tentatively reaching for Dean’s. Dean forces himself to relax his muscles before he lifts his head. The lines at the corners of Cas’s eyes are deep, his frown is concerned, blue eyes worried. “Dean—”

“Sorry,” Dean says, fingers tangling with Cas’s as he attempts to find a reassuring smile amongst his arsenal. “Long day. I shouldn’t take it out on you two.”

He pats Cas’s hand before he pulls away, turning to look out the window. “So, Charlie, what did she find out? This letter... it’s for real?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, quiet, nervous now. “It is. She... she wants to meet us. Talk. Explain.”

“Explain why she left us?”

“I guess,” Sam says. Dean watches Sam’s reflection in the glass. Tries not to remember his strapping little brother as a weepy-eyed kid asking Dean why they didn’t have a mom. Everyone else does, Dean. Why don’t we. Didn’t she love us. Did we do something bad? I don’t know, Sammy, Dean remembers snapping because he didn’t know. But he thought, that maybe yes, maybe he had done something bad. Made her want to leave.

He forces himself to turn around and do his brother the decency of meeting his eye. “And you want to? You want to meet her?”

Sam shrugs. “I think so. I mean... yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

Dean nods. “Okay. You meet her then, Sammy. You ask her what excuse she has for abandoning her kids and husband for over twenty years.”

Sam bites his lip, gazes at Dean with those awful weepy eyes. “I don’t want to do it alone, Dean. I need you.”

What about what I need, Dean wants to scream. 

But Dean’s needs have never taken priority. Not as far as Dean is concerned. Not when it comes to Sam.

“Fine,” Dean says, flat. “Organize it, and I’ll be there.”

Sam’s face lights up despite Dean’s unenthused reply. “Seriously? Thanks, Dean. I... this means a lot. I just... I just need to meet her. To understand.”

Dean nods like he agrees, even though the thought of coming face to face with the woman who walked out on them fills him with nothing but gut-churning dread. 

Sam doesn’t stay much longer. Not once he figures out that Dean’s done with the topic of conversation. Cas sees him out while Dean finds a dustpan and brush to clear up the mess of glass spread across the floor. He’s cleaning whisky and the last tiny specks of glass up with a paper towel when Cas comes back. He takes the napkin from Dean’s hand and throws it in the trash, before tugging him into a hug. He doesn’t let go until Dean finally relaxes in his arms, his head drooping onto Cas’s shoulder. 

“Dean—” Cas starts to say, but Dean just can’t.

“Can we not,” he says, muffled in Cas’s shirt. 

Cas’s arms tighten around him. “I know you’ve had a rough day, but we should talk.”

“I know,” Dean admits, breaking out of the hug just far enough so he can look Cas in the face. At least he seems concerned rather than mad. But even concern is more than Dean can handle right now. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “Sorry I lied to you. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry I didn’t tell you what scenes we were reshooting. I know I screwed up, okay, but can... can you just shout at me later? I don’t think I can handle anymore conflict today.”

He’s just so damn tired. He’s honestly lost track of all the things he needs to apologize to Cas for. He hopes he’s covered most of it. 

Cas cups Dean’s cheek, his hand as gentle as his softly spoken words. “I’m not going to shout at you. But you are not okay. And pretending that you are is starting to take its toll. I want you to let me take care of you the way you take care of everyone else.”

“You’re not my bodyguard, Cas,” Dean says, tiredly. “It’s not your job.”

“I am your boyfriend,” Cas points out. “It’s very much my job.”

Dean’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into his boyfriend’s touch. “Can we... can we just go to bed, please. I’m tired, Cas.”

“Of course,” Cas agrees easily, and then his lips are brushing soft and tender against Dean’s in a kiss that conveys more than any words can. 

Cas doesn’t try to talk to Dean again. Nothing more serious than, have some water, and I love you and goodnight. Dean’s grateful for it. Even though he knows he can’t avoid the conversation for long. Cas is worried. He’s probably right to be; Dean was a moody asshole even before this bombshell news about his mother’s reappearance. 

He does fuss about the marks left behind on Dean’s body after the day’s brutal filming. New bruises and irritated red scrapes around his wrists. Dean is more patient than he would normally be at Cas’s motherhenning but Cas is still muttering low courses aimed at Marv when Dean crawls under the bed covers. Dean falls asleep with Cas’s arm wrapped around his chest, his head tucked between Dean’s shoulder blades and his hand over Dean’s heart. 

He wakes, less than four hours later, sheets sticking to his sweat-soaked skin, and chest heaving as though he’d been running flat out. Which, in his dreams, he had been. Chased by demons and ghosts in the form of Alastair and his father. His mother, blonde-haired and delicate, watching impassively from the sidelines. Dean’s subconscious doesn’t win any prizes for subtlety that’s for sure. Dean scrubs his hand across his face, and slides out of bed. Cas, lying star-fished on his back, doesn’t stir, and Dean’s careful not to disturb him. He has more than enough of his own bad dreams to deal with without Dean’s waking him too.

A cold shower cleans away the sweat but doesn’t entirely erase the shadows still lurking from his nightmare. A drink doesn’t help much either. 

Thankfully, by the time Cas wakes up and comes searching for him, Dean has graduated to coffee. It’s still early, just after 5am, but Dean has to be at the studio lot for seven so there’s no point in attempting to catch more sleep. 

“You’re up early,” Cas says, with a yawn. 

Even exhausted and stressed, Dean can’t help but grin at his adorably pillow-creased face and ruffled hair. Cas is so effortlessly sexy it would be infuriating if he wasn’t Dean’s. 

“Woke up and couldn’t fall back to sleep,” Dean admits. It’s the truth, just not the whole truth. “Let me fetch you some coffee.”

“You should have woken me,” Cas grouses, following Dean through to the kitchen. 

Dean shrugs. “No point in us both being up so early.”

Cas wraps himself around Dean’s back like a sleepy koala, kissing the soft hairs at his nape, while Dean pours him coffee.

Dean turns around in his arms, kisses him, sweet and closed mouth in respect of morning breath, and the fear Cas might taste the whisky he had two hours ago, then he presses the coffee into Cas’s hand. 

“You’re shooting again today?” Cas asks, between sips of coffee. 

“Yep,” Dean confirms, refilling his own mug. 

“May I come with you?” That he sounds so unsure makes Dean feel like an asshole. 

“Sure, if you want to,” Dean says. “If you don’t have piles of very important boss-type paperwork to do?” 

Cas pouts over his coffee. “I always have very important paperwork. But it can wait. It’s waited this long after all.”

“Slacker,” Dean chuckles. For someone who owns an incredibly profitable business Cas is shockingly reluctant to sit behind a desk. Dean knows for a fact he drives his accountant and managers to the edge of quitting at least twice a month. But hell, it’s not like he doesn’t sympathize. “You want some breakfast?”

“You’re having breakfast?” Cas quirks an eyebrow. “That’s a minor miracle these days. Just how long have you been awake for?”

“Hey, I have breakfast,” Dean says, dodging the question. 

“Black coffee is not breakfast.”

“Sometimes I make toast.”

“Sometimes you do, but generally you don’t eat it. Usually because it’s inedible.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean grumbles. “I make a mean bowl of cheerios.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Cas smirks into his coffee. 

“So, you’re saying you don't want to have breakfast then?”

“I’m saying I’d rather take you back to bed and have you.”

Dean grins at Cas. “Look at you, half a mug of coffee and you’re putting on the moves.”

“Are they working?”

“Hmm,” Dean pretends to consider. “Add in a squeeze of toothpaste and they just might.”

Cas smiles, wolfish, sets down his coffee, grabs Dean’s hand instead and tugs him in the direction of their bathroom. Dean puts up exactly zero resistance. It’s good to slip back to normal. Even if there are still issues hiding just below the surface of their gentle teasing.

And it’s nice to start the day still relaxed from Cas fucking him into the mattress. That coffee must have really woken him up, because Cas was surprisingly energetic for so early in the morning. Dean isn’t complaining. Even if he is walking even more bow-legged than normal.

When he gets to the studios, Dean’s still smiling just thinking about Cas’s fingers wrapped around his wrists, his teeth scraping down the back of his neck. And if Cas’s cute little smirk is anything to go by, he’s feeling pretty pleased with himself too. 

Sam groans when he walks into Dean’s trailer just a few minutes after Dean and Cas arrive. Though, that’s more to do with the way Cas is crowding Dean up against the wall, mouth latched on to his neck, rather than any psychic vision of what they’d been up to an hour previously.

“The make-up team are gonna love you,” he points out, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the closed door in a not-so subtle sign that he’s staying. 

Being an annoying big brother, Dean would happily continue making-out with Cas just to make Sam squirm, but Cas, the spoilsport, isn’t fond of molesting him in front of Sam and takes a step back, straightening his tie and trying to smooth the creases from his shirt. 

Dean attempts, unsuccessfully, to rub away the faint hickey he knows is on his neck. “Pretty sure I’m covered in three different kinds of fake blood today anyway,” he shrugs, quickly admitting defeat and settling for patting down Cas’s sex hair instead. “I didn’t think you were going to be here this early, Sasquatch, what’s going on?”

“A couple of the studio execs might be showing up today,” Sam says. “For a surprise visit.”

That grabs Dean’s attention. “Seriously? Why? And how do you know?”

“I hear things.” Sam is trying too hard to look innocent. Sam also has a lot of people on his contacts list. And Sam was mad as hell yesterday. 

“Did you call someone?”

“I might have,” Sam hedges, watching Dean closely, gauging his reaction before he commits to confessing all. Dean waits.

“Okay, I called Frank,” Sam confesses. “I was hacked off. You were being a martyr. Marv was being an asshole.”

Frank is one of the executive producers. He’s loaded, cranky, paranoid as hell, and has connections everywhere. He also loves Dean. Thinks he’s kind of pretty. High praise from the old grouch.

“The execs were coming down anyway,” Sam insists. “Frank said the studio still isn’t happy with what Marv’s doing. They want to see for themselves what’s going on.”

Despite Sam acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary, Dean has a feeling the shit is about to hit the fan. 

His suspicions are echoed by Debbie and Annie in Make-Up and Donnie, the hairdresser. “Sweetheart,” Donnie says, running his fingers through Dean’s hair like he’s petting a kitten, “everyone and their poodle knows Marv has lost his mind. It’s a miracle the studio has let him muddle on this long. There’s a lot of money riding on this movie.”

“Does everyone know about this surprise visit?” Dean asks, trying and failing not to melt under Donnie’s expert touch. Given Cas’s poorly hidden jealous streak, it’s just as well Cas is outside on his cell phone rather than watching Dean all but purr as the stylist plays with his hair. 

“Everyone apart from Marv,” Donnie says. “And his dumbass assistants, bless their little black souls. Yep, sweetie, this has been a long time coming. I hope karma smacks that jumped-up dictator right in his pug-face today.”

If Dean wasn’t quite so mellowed out under Donnie’s magic fingers, he’d take offence at that pug slur. Those little scrunched up faces are freaking adorable. 

Dean’s more relaxed than he has been for some time as he walks onto set, Sam and Cas trailing just behind him. Marv isn’t around, but that’s not unusual. The AD’s do most of Marv’s ground work. The director prefers to make a dramatic entrance once everyone else is in place. 

Today’s entrance is a smidge more dramatic than usual. 

“You,” Marv yells, storming onto set, his stumpy legs eating up the distance unusually quickly. “This is all your fault!”

The only reason Dean stumbles backwards when Marv shoves him, is sheer surprise. 

“What the hell, dude?” Dean says, not missing the fury on Cas’s face as he instantly jumps between them, yanking Marv back by the collar of his crumpled suit jacket.

“I really don’t think you want to add an assault charge to your problems,” a studio exec calmly intones, arriving on Marv’s heels. 

“I wouldn’t have any problems if it wasn’t for Winchester,” Marv rages, stabbing his finger towards Dean. “And the only one getting slapped with assault charges will be this brainless oaf, unless he unhands me right now.”

Cas lets go of Marv, wiping his hands on his pants, a bemused expression on his face. 

The brainless oaf remark would annoy Dean if it wasn’t patently ridiculous, everyone knows Cas is insanely intelligent. Dean settles for glaring at Marv instead of punching him. 

“I assure you, Mr. Metatron,” the condescension drips from the exec’s voice as easily as money exudes from his Italian leather shoes. “Mr. Winchester is not the problem. Rather, the problem stems from the fact that the story you are attempting to tell, poorly I might add, is not the story we want you to tell.”

“It’s my damn movie. My decisions,” Marv spits. Dean backs even further away from him. 

“Not anymore,” another exec steps in, nodding at a burly guy with security written all over him. Quite literally across his tee-shirt.

“You... you can’t do this,” Marv splutters.

“I assure you we can,” exec number one says, glancing nonchalantly at his Rolex. “And if you have any sense at all, I suggest you leave the premises with as little fuss as possible.”

“You...” Marv turns back to face Dean, his face swallowed up by an ugly red flush. “I’ll... I’ll ruin you. I’ll make sure no one ever works with you again, you son of a whore. I’ll— “

“You’ll leave now before I lose my patience,” Cas says quietly, the intensity in his eyes, the deep growl of his voice, suddenly making it obvious to anyone with a brain that he’s far more dangerous than the overly-muscled security guard. 

Marv visibly gulps. 

“And,” Sam adds, cool as any soulless lawyer. “If you attempt to slander my brother in any way, I will drag you through so many lawsuits, you’ll be lucky not to be living in a dumpster by the time I’m finished.”

Marv’s face is almost purple. If Dean was a nicer person, he’d be concerned about the man’s health. 

“This isn’t over,” he snarls at Dean. Dean isn’t sure what _ this _ is so he doesn’t like to argue, and frankly, it’s hardly the most threatened he’s ever felt in his life. He settles for flashing his best shit-eating grin, and winking at Marv, which perhaps doesn’t pour oil on the situation. But hey, at least he didn’t punch the moron. 

Marv lets out a strange squeak and lunges forward. With one casual step to the side, Dean dodges easily out of the way. He doesn’t even attempt to hide his satisfied smile as security drags the director away in a headlock. It’s easily the funniest thing Dean’s seen in weeks. 

“You were hardly helpful.” Cas squints disapprovingly at Dean. Belatedly, Dean tries, not very hard, to contain the glee on his face. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“So,” Dean turns to the studio exec’s once he’s finally damped down his urge to cackle. “You fired Marv?”

“Due to creative differences, Mr. Metatron and the studio heads came to an amicable and joint decision to part ways,” exec number one says, his tone perfectly even and believable. Well… believable if Dean hadn’t just watched a security guard wrestle Marv out of the building. If that’s the bullshit they’re planning to feed the press though, Dean’s happy to toe the party line this time.

Snorting, Dean turns to Sam. “How much did you have to do with this?” 

Sam mumbles something noncommittal under his breath. 

“Your brother merely confirmed the suspicions that we already had,” exec number two interjects before Dean can call him on it. “Marv’s vision and the direction of this movie were not in line with what we expected. After the less than promising early cut, he was already under intense scrutiny.”

Dean can’t say he’s not relieved. Marv’s departure has already improved his day, his week, heck... his year, by at least 50%.

“So, what now?” he asks, because it’s all well and good firing Marv but that does leave them standing around on a sinking ship without a captain. 

“Now, Mr. Winchester,” exec number one, says, looking down at his very pretty Rolex again, “Our new director should be here in just—”

With impeccable timing his words are cut off with the appearance of a very familiar face, lopsided smirk fixed firmly in place. “Well... hello, boys.”

“You cannot be serious,” Cas retorts, face stony.

Dean sighs. 

Fergus Crowley claps his hands. “So, I hear we’re getting the band back together.”

Cas groans, and slaps his palm across his face.

The day’s filming is cancelled, hardly surprising given the off-script drama, but considering the amount of money the studio must be spending on the director switcheroo and all the reshoots, Dean suspects the pace of filming will increase to make up for it. 

Crowley’s directing style is far sharper than Marv’s anyway. He doesn’t believe in multiple takes the way that Marv does. Although that’s perhaps because the movies Dean has worked with him on in the past haven’t had the budget that this monolith has. 

Dean, in all honesty, is relieved that Crowley has stepped in. Better the devil you know and all that schtick. And while Crowley might rub some people the wrong way, he does know how to command a movie set. 

Cas, on the other hand, would quite like to scoop Crowley’s eyes out with a spoon. That he admits this while brandishing a kitchen knife should be worrying but Dean’s too busy admiring how hot Cas looks when he’s pissed at someone other than him.

“He’s an arrogant, narcissistic egomaniac.”

Dean nods. “No arguments from me there.”

Cas, slams the knife down on the chopping board. Then the refrigerator door is taking the brunt of his anger, and the poor carrots he grabs from the salad drawer look likely to be his next victim. “He’s a liar, he’s manipulative, and he’s power hungry.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Just like 90% of the other directors and producers in Hollywood.”

The carrots, tossed on the chopping board, are given a brief stay of execution while Cas grabs a pan. Somehow he manages to make more noise than Ella did earlier on in the day when she was using the kitchen pans and a wooden spoon as a makeshift drum kit. 

“He told the press about our relationship in order to garner more media attention.”

“And Pam nearly eviscerated him for it.” So, Dean heard anyway. He’d have paid money to see it for himself. His publicist has a wild temper and a sharp tongue and she might just be one of the few people who could dent Crowley’s ego. 

“He used your abduction as PR for his movie,” Cas continues, slamming a pan down unnecessarily violently on the stove top. “You nearly died and he profited from it.”

Figuring that he should be safe since Cas’s hands are temporarily free of anything heavy or sharp, Dean slides in behind him, wrapping his arms around Cas’s waist, resting his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m not excusing that. But it was good business to him, pure and simple. He’s a damn fine director though, Cas, and he respects me more than Marv ever did. I want to finish making this movie. And I want it to be awesome. At this point Crowley’s the best chance for that.”

Cas huffs, spine rigid despite Dean nuzzling against his neck. “I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he eventually admits, jaw so tense Dean’s not sure how the words escaped. 

“Aw, baby, are you jealous?” Dean teases. 

If possible, Cas’s muscles tighten even further as he grinds out an unconvincing, “no.” And Dean can practically see the pout on his boyfriend’s face.

He probably shouldn’t laugh, but Dean can’t help himself. “Cas, you’re not serious. _ Crowley _?”

“He’s all over you. He calls you his bestie. He refers to your _ bromance _ all the time. I’m sure the man is in love with you,” Cas grumbles, less angry and more petulant now. 

Dean grins against Cas’s neck. Now that he knows he’s only dealing with a little green-eyed grumpiness rather than serious anger, he can have some fun. If he plays his cards right, he can rile Cas up and have totally awesome angry sex. There’s a fine line between riling him up and pissing him off completely though. He’s aiming for some ass-bruisingly hot sex, not to end up sleeping on the couch. “He isn’t in love with me, doofus, he’s in love with the money I make him.”

Cas lets out another huff, but it’s at least 50% exaggerated. Dean suspects that at this point Cas is probably angling for angry sex too. God, he loves him. 

“You know I only love you, sweetheart,” Dean says, squeezing his arms around Cas’s waist and feeling nothing but toned muscle. His boyfriend is so fucking sexy, seriously. “Although…” Dean muses, “Crowley does have that devilish twinkle in his eye, and you know, I do love a man with a bald spot.”

Suddenly, Dean is the one with his back against the stove and Cas’s hands cupping his ass, his eyes bright and a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you trying to provoke me, Dean Winchester?”

“Is it working?” Dean asks, with a cheeky smirk.

Cas leans into him, hips grinding against Dean’s. “Perhaps.”

“Erm, guys? You are remembering we’re here, right?” 

Dean sighs, head falling forward onto Cas’s shoulder. Kid brothers, man. Do they ever stop cockblocking? 

“Of course, Sam,” Cas says, patting Dean consolingly on the butt, before he turns around. “At least this drama has given us an opportunity to spend some time together. It’s far too long since we’ve had a chance to see Elle and Jess.”

That’s unfortunately true. Dean’s schedule has been insane lately. Spending time alone with Cas has been problematic, time with his little niece has been nearly impossible. She’s gonna be a teenager the next time he blinks at this rate. Being able to spend the afternoon with her along with Cas, Sam and Jess has been a rare treat. And exhausting. Two-year-old’s are actual demons.

“Well,” Sam says. “Elle has fallen asleep. So, we figured we’d head out. Give you guys some alone time?”

Now Dean feels like crap. “Aw, Sammy, you don’t have to do that. We were gonna eat. Cas was making… _ carrots _?”

“As delicious as that sounds and as nice as it would be to see you eat for once, I know your schedule Dean, and I know you and Cas haven’t had much time together lately. It’s fine.”

Dean still feels like an asshole. He’s been so busy for the past _ forever _ that he feels like he’s neglecting everyone: Cas, Elle, Sam and Jess. Never mind his friends, not that he has many, but he hasn’t properly talked to Charlie in weeks. He just seems to leap from one project straight to the next. He has done for years. 

Might as well work while the offers are still coming in, right? That’s been Dean’s mantra since he started out acting, hell, before that… since he started modelling. But the thing is, the offers have been pretty damn steady for the past five or six years. The longest break he’s had lately was the three weeks recuperation he needed after the business with Alastair. And that wasn’t exactly a vacation. 

Reading his mind perfectly, Cas gently offers a suggestion. “Perhaps a break might be worth considering. I think we could all use a vacation. Some time to relax and recharge.”

Dean’s not going to even hint that wouldn’t be awesome. But he also knows it’s not possible. 

Sam is at least apologetic. “Dean’s schedule is pretty full on. The reshoots kind of screwed up our plans. I mean, I guess I can see how much it would cost to back out of—”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Cas says, sounding far from fine. “It was just an idea.”

“Next year,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s hand, but attention fixed on Sam. “Let’s take some time off next year. We’ve not actually signed on the dotted line for that Netflix series, have we? Maybe we could give that a miss?”

“Okay,” Sam nods. “I’ll have a look at your schedule and see what we can do.”

Sam’s switch from business manager to kid brother is perceptible. He shuffles his feet, and runs his fingers through his hair in a poker-tell that he’s never been able to hide. “Listen, Dean, before we go, can we talk for a few minutes?”

“We are talking,” Dean points out, suddenly on edge.

“About Mom.”

Dean tries to stay relaxed, tries not to bristle at the way Sam so casually calls her Mom, but his fingers tighten around Cas’s all the same. 

“What about her?”

“I emailed her last night, and she emailed back, like straight away. She asked if we could meet up. At the end of next week.”

“Am I free?”

“Yeah, for a couple of hours anyway. Will you go?”

Dean wants to say no. He wants to tell Sam bluntly that there’s nothing he wants less than to meet up with the cold-hearted bitch that ruined his childhood. But Sam’s looking at him with big nervous eyes and Dean doesn’t have the heart.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not.”

** _Dean, Aged Nine_ **

“Dean?” Sammy asks, hand grasping at Dean’s, his little fingers sticky and damp. 

“What, Sammy?” Dean’s walking fast, conscious that Sam’s short legs are almost running to keep up but too worried about being late to slow down. Dad dropped them off three blocks from the school because he had to go in the opposite direction to make it to work in time, and it’s Dean’s job to make sure they aren’t late. 

“Why did Mommy leave?”

Dean’s stomach drops down to the worn soles of his sneakers. 

“What?” 

“Why did Mommy leave? Did we do something bad?”

Dean kicks a stone, flushing with guilt when it bounces across the sidewalk and dings against the side of a car. He tugs Sam’s hand, unintentionally makes him run for a few steps. “No, Sammy, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.” Sam pouts. Just for a second. “My teacher says we’re going to be making Mother’s Day cards this week.”

Figures. First grade teachers and their dumb ideas. 

“When I told her we don’t have a mom, Dylan said we must have been real horrible to make her leave.”

“Dylan’s a dumb butthole,” Dean says, with feeling. “We didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“Why did she leave then?”

Dean sighs. “I don’t know, Sammy. She just did.”

“Maybe you did something wrong? Maybe you peed in the bed like I did last month. Daddy got pretty mad about that.”

Dean scowls. “I didn’t pee the bed. And Daddy only yelled because he told you not to drink all that water before bedtime and you did anyways.”

“I was thirsty,” Sam whines, and then trips over his feet. Dean jerks to a stop to make sure he’s okay before starting to walk again, a little slower than before. 

“How do you know though?”

“Know what?” Dean huffs. 

“Know you didn’t pee the bed. You said you don’t remember her real well. Maybe you just forgot.”

Dean thinks he might be about to cry. His eyes are burning and his stomach’s squirming like he’s drunk the bad milk again. 

“I didn’t pee the bed, Sammy. Maybe she left because you were such a whiny baby.”

Sam stops dead, almost yanking Dean’s arm out of its socket. “Do you think so, Dean? Do you think it’s my fault?”

Aww, shit. Now Sam’s going to cry and it’s all Dean’s fault. “No, Sammy, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Maybe it’s true though, maybe she left because I cried too much.” Sam’s face is still crumpled, his eyes big and wet. Dean takes his hand again and starts walking, even slower. They’re going to be late. Dad’s going to be mad, especially if the school calls him again. 

“You didn’t even cry that much when you were a baby, Sammy, I swear. It’s not your fault. Some moms just aren’t cut out to be moms.”

Dean heard someone say that once to Dad. He thought it was stupid at that time. He still does. But it’s not like he knows why their mom left him. For all he knows it _ was _ because he peed the bed and Sam was a whiny baby. One thing school has taught him is that moms don’t just leave their kids. They must have done something wrong. But he’s not going to let Sammy think that. Not ever. 

“It’s not fair,” Sam says, trying to kick a stone just like Dean did, but only succeeding in scuffing the toes of his sneakers instead.

“I know,” Dean agrees, because it’s not. It sucks. Not having a mom sucks. “But you know what you do have Sammy, that dumbass Dylan doesn’t have?”

“No,” Sam says, wiping the cuff of his jacket across his snotty nose. “What?”

“An awesome big brother who’ll never leave.”

Sam looks up at him with watery eyes. “Never?”

“Never,” Dean says, squeezing Sam’s fingers. “I promise.”

  
  


**CHAPTER THREE **

  
  


Crowley has a plan. Dean is unsurprised. 

“The producers approached me a few weeks ago, showed me what Marv has in the can. From what I’ve seen I can salvage most of the movie with my magical re-editing skills, I mainly just need extra footage of you being a tortured soul. A pretty, pouty, manfully teary, tortured soul.”

Dean rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Of course.”

Crowley leans forward, elbows on his knees and a slightly terrifying glint in his eyes. “And the ending. We obviously need to reshoot the ending.”

Dean isn’t entirely sure that they do. Alfred departing words of wisdom. A brooding Batman mourning the loss of his once young charge, staring forlornly at a Robin costume that won’t be worn by Jason Todd ever again. The Red Hood either dead or disappeared. The Joker laughing maniacally. It all seems pretty run of the mill for a Batman movie. “We do?”

“The Red Hood doesn’t even feature in the last scene.”

“Well, yeah?” Dean doesn’t see the problem. 

Crowley’s words slow down to a kindergarten teacher crawl, patronizing dick. “This is the Red Hood’s movie, darling. It needs to end with the Red Hood in all his angsty glory.”

That’s not quite how the studio is selling it. “Um... it’s a Batman movie?”

“Not anymore it’s not. Batman is boring. Batman is dull. Batman has had his day. Batman—”

Dean holds his palms up in surrender. “Okay. I get it. I mean, I don’t think the movie-going public or Idris will agree but...”

Crowley waves his hands dismissively. “The movie-going public will shed tears as they watch Jason Todd’s Robin die. They’ll hate Batman for not saving his brave side-kick almost as much as they’ll hate the Joker for killing him. The Red Hood is going to end up being the anti-hero that everyone will root for. They’re going to love you, darling. I’ve already drafted something with a couple of the writers, hopefully we’ll have the new script pages for you later today.”

“And this is what the studio wants?” Dean asks, doubtfully. 

“Darling, the studio hired me to salvage this disaster of a movie. This is how we’re going to do it. We’re going to shoot as quickly as possible. I’m going to cut Marv’s horrendous bumbling attempt at storytelling into a slick masterpiece and we’re going to release this movie as quickly as possible before the critics hang us for Marv’s mistakes.”

“Hmm,” Dean says, dubious. “Word on the grapevine is already pretty shady. Three directors linked to one movie, all these reshoots after the test showing, I doubt we’re gonna break any box office records.”

“Maybe not, dear boy,” Crowley says. “But at least with my undoubted talent and your pretty face we can rest assured that the movie won’t suck balls.”

Dean can’t find the words to argue with that. 

With his normal efficiency, Crowley swiftly supplies cast and crew with a new shooting schedule. And even with the new ending scene the reshoots aren’t (in theory) going to take too much longer than Marv’s original plans. 

One more day of shooting on the warehouse soundstage for Jason Todd’s death scene and they move on. Crowley’s fast paced method of directing is a breath of fresh air after Marv’s dragged out torture of take after take after take, with little actual direction other than do it again and do it better. 

Crowley likes people to jump when he says jump and to cut when he says cut, and he has a temper that explodes at the drop of a hat, but at least he has a clear vision and is vocal about his expectations. 

Ten days in and he’s won around most of the cast and crew who haven’t had the dubious pleasure of working with him before. And fired a handful of Marv’s most obnoxious supporters. If there’s anyone left in the crew who thinks Metatron was treated badly, they’re sensible enough to keep quiet about it. 

Cas still isn’t a fan, but other than throwing Crowley the occasional stink-eye, he behaves when he’s hanging around with Dean on set. That’s not as awkward as it could be because Cas apparently has more important things to do than waste his days with Dean right now.

Not that Dean minds of course. Despite his aversion to paperwork, Cas does have a business to run. He is far less hands on with Angel Security than he used to be; has passed more responsibility over to his small team of managers in London. But they still report to him daily, and he always has clients to reassure, contracts to read, angels (or as Cas boringly calls them employees) to wrangle. He also still enjoys stepping into the field and taking a more active involvement in the bodyguarding business than Dean is comfortable with. Cas throwing himself in danger’s way will never be okay as far as he is concerned. But it’s not as though he has much say in the matter.

Whatever, Cas is an incredibly busy guy. Dean understands. And it’s not like standing around on a movie set watching Dean is exciting or glamorous. Most of the time it’s downright tedious. Dean doesn’t blame Cas for finding something better to do.

Except... Cas is acting weirdly vague. Disappearing to take phone calls when he is with Dean and creeping home late more than once. His behavior isn’t shifty, not exactly. It’s not like he has a normal 9-5 job at the best of times. But, Cas is a crappy liar and Dean’s finely-tuned bullshit detector is pinging. He’d lay good odds that Cas is hiding something. It’s disappointing more than anything. After Dean blew-up about him and Sam going behind his back about the whole Mary thing, he’d hoped that Cas would have stopped with the secret squirrel shit.

Dean has mentioned Cas’s odd behavior to Sam, just casually, in passing. And Sam’s helpful brotherly advice: “Don’t be an idiot all your life, Dean.”

Okay then. 

It’s not like Dean actually thinks Cas would cheat on him. Not really. Cas is an upright guy, too decent to screw around. But, on the other hand, Dean can be a dick, and hard work. He’s not a picnic to live with, especially lately. He isn’t always the most attentive boyfriend in the world either. Plus, his schedule is so insane that he and Cas rarely manage to go out, and when they do they’re seldom left alone. The fans aren’t too bad, mainly, but the paps are worse than vermin. And harder to get rid of.

And the fact is Cas is hot. He probably has people throwing themselves at him all the time. People that don’t have half the baggage that Dean does. Part of him would understand if Cas found someone else —a very tiny part of him— mainly, he would just be devastated. 

“Everything okay?” 

Dean snaps out of his thoughts at Sam’s question. 

“What?”

“You doing okay?”

“Great, Sammy. Just peachy.”

And then there’s this bullshit. 

“This isn’t easy for me either, Dean,” Sam says, tightly. 

“You’re the one who wanted to do this in the first place, Sam,” Dean shoots back at him, and then feels like an ass. “Shit, sorry, that was… I didn’t mean... let’s just get this over with, okay?”

Dean climbs out of the car before Sam can reply, baseball cap pulled low and aviators firmly in place. Dean didn’t want any security with them for this, wanted low-key and inconspicuous. Sam pitched a fit though, so they ended up with a driver and one of Cas’s best guys for company. Dean would have preferred if Cas was here himself —for moral support rather than security— but there’s _ apparently _ a problem with a client that only Cas can deal with. A problem that’s resulted in his absence for the past two days. 

Cas had been apologetic, genuinely sorry, but hand-wavy on details. Again. 

‘He’s lying’ the insidious voice in his head insists when Dean dwells on it. 

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says as Sam walks around the car. “You have any idea what Cas is so tangled up in right now?”

The question obviously takes Sam by surprise. “What? No.”

Dean studies his brother’s expression, and doesn’t much like what he sees. He keeps his voice level when he replies though. “You and Cas aren’t keeping secrets from me again, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean.” Sam scowls. It’s not actually an answer. “Look, can we just deal with this before you accuse me of anything else?”

“I’m not accusing...” Dean starts to argue before he decides against it. Sam’s right; they need to deal with this shit first. And they need to be on the same side here.

They went to insane lengths to make sure no paps followed from the house, and the restaurant they’re at is a small family owned one. One they visit often, and have done since Dean’s modelling days. Ellen, the owner, mothers them terribly. She’s been attempting to put more meat on Dean’s bones ever since he was literally a starving model. All sharp cheekbones and huge eyes. 

Dean knows why Sam arranged to meet their mother here. Knows he wants familiar and safe for the pair of them. The only problem is that if this all goes to shit, this place risks being tarnished forever, and man, Dean’s going to miss the burgers. Not as much as he’ll miss the people though. 

Sam stops beside him, takes the grey knitted beanie off his head, twists it in his hands before yanking it back down over his ridiculous floppy hair again. 

“You know it’s like seventy degrees, right?” Dean points out.

“You know wearing a baseball hat and aviators make you look like a douchebag, right?”

“Jerk!”

“Bitch!”

They exchange a glance that says I love you and I’m here for you and holy shit, what the fuck are we doing, far more eloquently than a Hollywood writer could manage with ten pages of script. And then Dean opens the restaurant door. 

“Hey, it’s the Winchester bros,” Ash’s voice carries across the restaurant in greeting. So much for discreet. Thankfully the place isn’t busy, only a family and a few couples scattered through the room. 

“Hey, Ash,” Dean says, removing his glasses, but leaving his hat tipped down over his face. “Don’t tell me Ellen let you out front?”

“Dude,” Ash says, “I’m the boss lady’s numero uno employee. This fine establishment is safe in my capable hands.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says. “Didn’t she almost fire you last year?”

“Sam, bro, you wound me. That was all a huge misunderstanding.”

Dean smirks. “The way I heard it, customers were complaining about your hair finding its way into their food. Ellen was bitching cause you refused to cut it, ‘cause I guess you’re Samson or... I dunno... Sam, or some shit?”

Sam huffs, but no way is Dean missing a chance to needle him about his hair. And if it helps break some of the godawful tension... job done. 

“Nah, bros, it’s all water under the bridge now. We totally compromised.”

Dean quirks his eyebrow. “You compromised? Looks to me like you cut your hair, dude. I’d say Ellen kicked your ass.”

“That, my man, is where you’re wrong,” Ash says, turning his head with a flourish. “This haircut is the shizzle, man... all business up front, party in the back.” 

“Ahh... _ nice _?” Dean says, barely holding back a laugh at Ash’s horrific mullet. 

Ash doesn’t seem at all put out. “I’m telling you man, chicks dig it.”

“Damnit, Ash, you better not be swinging your hair about in my restaurant again,” Ellen’s voice comes from behind him, closely followed by the woman herself. 

“Aw, Ellen, just showing the bro’s my party ‘do.”

“If you don’t tie up that monstrosity of a hairstyle, your ass is gonna hit the sidewalk,” Ellen retorts, striding up to Sam and Dean and dragging Dean straight into a hug. “It’s good to see you boys, it’s been too long.”

“It’s only been a few months,” Dean counters as Ellen pulls Sam down into hug next. 

“Like I said,” she says, “too long. How you boys doing?”

Dean grins. “Aw, y’know, Ellen, the Hollywood lifestyle, it’s all wild parties, snorting coke and fast women.”

“Hell yeah,” Ash drawls, holding his hand up for a high five. The glare Ellen gives Ash is dry enough to fry him on the spot, and the slap on the arm she gives Dean is hard enough to unbalance him. Sam doesn’t try to smother his laugh.

“I’m joking. You know I’m joking,” Dean whines, rubbing his arm. 

“We’re good thanks, Ellen,” Sam says. “Busy as always. How’s business?”

“Good, Sam, thank you. We’re missing Jo, of course, but she’s having a blast in Europe.”

Jo, Ellen’s daughter has been working her way through Europe for the past six months. Sam, Dean and Cas were in the restaurant when Jo broke the news she was leaving. That was a night to remember. A considerable amount of glassware had to be replaced afterwards. “Where is she now?” Dean asks.

“Prague,” Ellen says, a soft smile on her face, “she’s picked up work in a restaurant, told me when she comes back she’ll have a thing or two to show me. Anyway, enough about my wayward daughter, you have a guest. “

Dean’s stomach immediately tries to twist itself into a reef knot. 

Sam tenses beside him. “She’s here already?”

Ellen nods. “I’ve set her up in the private room out back. I’ll take you through. You boys want drinks?”

“Hell, yeah,” Dean says. “Whisky, please, straight up, a double.”

He expects Sam to bitch about his drinking, but all he does is ask for a beer. That’s when Dean knows for sure that Sam really is just as stressed as he is about this whole thing. 

“No problem,” Ellen says, leading them through the restaurant to the small private dining area in the back. And then Dean doesn’t hear anything else she says because his mother is sitting right there at the table. Blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, crows’ feet at her eyes and laughter lines at the corner of her mouth. 

He thought he might not recognize her. That he wouldn’t be able to tell for sure if this stranger really was his mother. He thought maybe twenty-five years would be long enough to wipe away the too-brief childhood memories. He was wrong. It’s her. Like she just stepped out of his dreams. Older, but still pretty. Still the mom that cut the crusts off his sandwiches.

He stands and stares, fingers white-knuckled on the back of a chair.

“Dean?” Sam says, voice small. “Is it really her?”

“Yeah, Sammy, it is.”

“Dean! Sam! God, my boys.” This woman, Mary Winchester, their mother, stands up, hand jumping to her mouth. 

“Mom?” Sam says, and he sounds so damn young, Dean thinks he might throw up.

“Sam, look at you... so tall,” she says. She’s not tall, not like Dean remembers. She must barely come up to Dean’s shoulder. She shifts on her chair, like she’s about to jump up and walk around the table towards them, but stops dead when Dean takes a defensive step back. 

“Do you... would you like to sit down?” 

No, Dean wouldn’t. He wants to stay right where the fuck he is, or walk out the door and never come back. He certainly doesn’t want to sit and chat like this is all perfectly normal. Sam nudges him though, and pulls out a couple of chairs. And Dean’s sitting, straight-backed and tight-lipped, and then there’s whisky in his hand and menus on the table and Dean still hasn’t uttered a word.

“You’re both so handsome,” Mary says. “And so like your father. Although I think maybe you have my eyes, Dean.”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to say she can’t lay claim to anything of the man he is, but he can’t talk. Is honestly concentrating too hard on breathing right now.

“Dad always said Dean looked more like you,” Sam says, and Dean wants to tell him to shut up, to not tell this woman anything. Not to betray their dad like that. 

Dean didn’t know how he’d feel setting eyes on his mother for the first time since he was nearly five years old, but he definitely didn’t expect to feel this overwhelmingly angry. 

“What do you want?” Dean growls, breaking his silence. 

Sam stills beside him, says low and placating, “Dean, please.”

But Dean can’t find it in himself to play nice. To pretend that this is all okay. Not even for Sam. 

“It’s fine, Sam,” Mary says. And even that is enough to piss off, Dean. “I just wanted to see you boys, Dean. To explain.”

“You have an explanation for walking out on your family? For disappearing for over twenty years?”

“Dean,” Mary says, “I understand that you feel angry, but what I did, it was for the best. At the time.”

Dean takes a drink of whisky because it’s either that or throw the glass across the room, and Ellen would kick his ass for that. 

“The best for who?” he manages to grit out once the whisky has wet his lips. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t the best for your kids.”

“It was,” Mary insists, and Dean can’t quite believe her gall. “At the time it was. Dean, I was miserable. In retrospect, I think I was suffering from depression. I spent every day crying and snapping at you and Sam and your Dad. I hated myself for it but it was getting worse. I was a terrible mother. And a terrible wife. I just... I didn’t think I was cut out for it. I felt like I was losing myself, suffocating a bit more each day.”

_ Suffocating _. 

Dean takes a deep breath before he speaks again. Tries to keep his voice level. Emotionless.

“So, you just walked out? You didn’t ask for help? Or talk to Dad? You just left?”

“I tried, I promise. I tried to talk to your dad, but he didn’t understand. He thought I was just tired. Just frustrated because he was working so much and I was stuck with a colicky baby and a demanding four-year-old. He thought my unhappiness would pass. That I just needed time.”

_ Stuck with. _

“Well, I guess he was right,” Dean says, bitterly. “You did just need time. Twenty-five years.”

Beside him Sam winces. But fuck this, Dean’s not sitting listening to his mom blame them for her walking out. 

“Dean, I know you might not believe this, but what I did, it was for you and Sam as much as myself. I loved you both so much, but I was dying in that house. Slowly, who I was, the woman you boys and your father deserved, was withering away. Leaving wasn’t easy, but at the time I felt like I was out of options. Staying would have killed me.”

Her calm tone of voice isn’t placating Dean in the slightest. In fact, if anything it’s having the opposite effect. “You loved us so you left? That’s bullshit. I mean, what did you think was going to happen? How did you see this panning out for us, huh? I mean did you even think about what would happen to _ us _ after you packed your bag and booked it out of Lawrence?”

“Of course I did. Your dad loved you. He was a good father, and so much better with you than I was. He had friends in Lawrence, _ good _ friends and a job he liked. He enjoyed the stability and routine of our lives in a way that I didn’t. I knew he’d figure it out. That he’d manage.”

Dean snorts. Even Sam shakes his head, sits back and takes a long draw from his beer. 

Mary shuffles nervously on her chair, leans over the table towards them. “I wasn’t planning on staying away. I swear. I just wanted some time. A little freedom.”

_ Freedom _.

Dean feels like he’s swallowed a lump of lead. 

Mary rambles on, words jumping over themselves rabbit quick. “I needed to get my head together. Decide exactly what it was I wanted.”

“So,” Dean says caustically. “I guess you decided you didn’t want us then.”

“No,” Mary’s quick to deny it. “No, that’s not what I decided. I missed you all so much. But by the time I got myself straightened out, figured out what I wanted, a way to make things work with your father, it was too late.”

“Too late?” Sam parrots.

“You were gone. I came back and you were gone. There was another family in our home, the garage was closed down and you boys and John had just disappeared. And no-one could or would tell me where you were.”

“You came back?” Sam says. Dean can hear forgiveness already softening the edges of his question.

Mary nods. “Of course I came back. I always planned on coming back.”

“Maybe you should have let Dad in on that little fact,” Dean spits. 

Mary leans across the table. “I didn’t know he would leave, Dean. He had a home, and the garage and two small boys.”

“He didn’t have you though,” Dean jabs.

“I didn’t know,” Mary insists, and now her eyes are watering and Dean doesn’t want to see her cry. Doesn’t want the fucking deja-vu. “I didn’t know he’d leave.”

Dean grins, and it’s not friendly. “I guess leaving’s quite the family trait.”

“Okay,” Sam says, calm and reasoned, like he didn’t spend years asking Dean why his mom didn’t love him. “Okay. I think we all need to take a breath.”

Dean takes a drink instead. 

“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself,” Sam says to Mary in an obvious attempt to diffuse some of the tension around the table. “I presume you know a bit about how our lives turned out, but we don’t know anything about you.”

Ain’t that the truth, Dean thinks. He has no idea who this woman is. And what’s worse, he doesn’t think he wants to know. 

“Well, I’m an actress. I don’t know if your daddy told you that. I started out as a dancer, that’s what I was doing when I met John, but I always wanted to act. It was my dream to move to Hollywood before your daddy swept me off my feet.” She adds, almost shyly, “So maybe you take after me, Dean.”

Dean blinks at her, his expression shutting down hard.

Mary coughs nervously and glances back at Sam before she continues. “I work mostly in the theatre though, not movies. And I... I go by my maiden name Mary Campbell. I worked with a repertory group in England for years, touring the country. Then I worked in Canada for a few years before...”

Dean sits back and watches Mary talk. Sam appears to be listening intently as she neatly summarizes two decades of her life, her career, her travels, but all Dean can think about is his childhood. His shitty childhood, and his broken Dad, and his motherless brother. 

“Why now?” he blurts out suddenly. Sam and Mary stop mid-conversation and stare at him. It’s a reasonable question though. He’s not taking it back. “Why contact us now? I mean... not to blow my own trumpet or anything but I won an Oscar a few years back, my life, our childhood, has been public fodder for years. My damn face has been splashed across billboards and magazine covers. You couldn’t turn on the television without seeing me a couple years back when... when the shit in Scotland went down. You’re not an idiot, you must have figured out who I was. Where we were. How easy it would be to contact us. So, why wait until now?”

“I... it...” Mary falters, her face flushing, and Dean suspects whatever she’s about to say is going to be a lie. “Believe it or not, I don’t exactly watch TMZ,” she says, smiling faintly. “And as I was saying, I spent a lot of time abroad.”

Dean cuts her off sharply. He knows a bullshitter when he hears one. “Is it money? Do you need cash?”

“No.” Mary shakes her head. “God, no.”

Dean carries on regardless, because he knows she’s lying. “Because I’m not exactly Scrooge-McDuck-rich, but according to Sammy here I’m not doing too shabby either.”

“I don’t want your money,” Mary insists. 

“Then what?” Dean pushes. “What _ do _ you want? You want a role in a movie? Want me to introduce you to people? You want me to—”

“Dean,” Sam snaps. “Stop it.”

“Stop what, Sammy? You don’t think it’s weird that she turned up out of the blue like this? That after twenty-five years of radio silence she suddenly comes calling?”

Sam’s jaw ticks. “I think you need to calm down.”

“And I think you need to get a fucking grip on reality.”

“Jesus, Dean, you’re not even giving her a chance.” Sam’s eyes flash. Sam isn’t quick to anger but when he blows it’s not pretty. “If I knew you were just going to be an asshole I’d have come here on my own.”

“That’s what I wanted, Sam, and honestly if I’d known I would have to listen to this bullshit I’d never have come despite your whining.”

“Boys, please don’t fight,” Mary says, and that’s absolutely the final straw. 

Dean stands up, leans forward, hands flat on the table. “Listen lady, you don’t get to tell me to do squat. You lost that right the night you walked out and just kept right on walking.”

The tears pooling in Mary’s eyes start to roll down her cheek. Later Dean might feel bad about that, right now he’s just pissed 

“Dean, please, this isn’t easy for me either.”

“Easy? _ Easy _!! You know what’s not easy? Growing up knowing your mom didn’t love you enough to stick around. That’s not easy.”

“Dean, calm down,” Sam says. “Yelling isn’t achieving anything. We came here to discuss this like adults. You’re not even giving her a chance.”

“No,” Dean says, throwing back the last of his whisky and slamming the glass down on the table. “I’m not.” 

He walks straight out the door, without looking back, without even glancing at Mary Winchester. Or Campbell, or whatever the fuck she’s calling herself these days. He’s so mad he can’t even talk to Ellen, just brushes past her. Even when she calls after him. It says a lot that he feels worse about that than he does reducing his mom to tears.

Ignoring the car outside and the security guy hurrying after him, he storms down the sidewalk until he finds a store that sells cigarettes and matches. 

He’s chain smoked three Marlboro, and feels ill for more than one reason by the time he and Sam are both back in the car heading home, neither of them talking. Too angry at each other to pretend otherwise. 

The driver drops Sam off at his home first. Sam hesitates for a moment before climbing out of the car, but does nothing more than shake his head and glare at Dean before slamming the door behind him. Dean thinks he might hurl. He’s not sure whether it’s because of the nicotine or Sam.

That doesn’t stop him from walking straight through to his backyard and sparking up another cigarette as soon as he arrives home though. His hands shaking so hard it takes him four attempts to light the damn thing. 

Ever since his mother got in touch, since the very first time Sam mentioned it, Dean has done his level best to avoid thinking about how this would go down. He’d hoped it would work out okay. Prayed that Sammy would find the answers he was searching for from a woman that the poor kid had no memories of. But he’d worried —rightly as it turned out— that it would all go to hell in a hand-basket. The one thing he’d counted on, though, was that no-matter what happened he and Sam would have each other’s backs. 

Dean paces beside his pool for a good hour, smokes enough to wish he’d bought more cigarettes. The conversation playing over and over in his head in a nauseating loop. It takes him a while to remember he’d switched his cell phone to silent before they’d gone in the restaurant. When he checks, he has a list of missed calls, including three from Crowley and half a dozen from Charlie. One forty minutes ago from Jess. Nothing from Cas though. 

He calls Cas first anyway. Saunters back inside the house and grabs a bottle of whisky, a glass, and ice from the freezer when he doesn’t pick up. 

Sitting down at the kitchen table, and pouring himself a generous drink, Dean thinks about calling Jess. Can only imagine what his brother’s wife might have to say to him. Pictures the anger screwing up Sam’s mouth when he walked away.

He calls Crowley.

“Ahh, Dean, nice of you to return my calls... eventually.”

Dean’s not in the mood. “What do you want, Crowley?”

“Well, aren’t you bitchy tonight? Sounds to me like someone needs to get laid. If that boyfriend of yours is too busy don’t hesitate to ask,” Crowley says, and then carries on, blithely ignoring Dean’s warning growl. “Just letting you know that there’s a schedule change, which means I need you earlier tomorrow. And on location. I managed to work my usual magic and secure the last minute go ahead we needed. The car will be there to collect you at three am. I sent you the details.”

“Fine,” Dean says, rubbing the cold glass against his forehead. “I’ll see you then.” He ends the call before Crowley can reply. Then he messages Charlie. He’s in too crappy a mood to actually talk to her; he doesn’t want to risk biting her head off, but she’s called too many times to ignore. 

She texts back straightway. Tells him not to worry. Everything’s fine. Talk later. 

Dean takes her at her word, even though on a normal day he’d never just dismiss her that easily, grabs his glass, the bottle of whisky and heads to bed to try and grab a couple of hours sleep.

He barely manages more than an hour. Wakes up hollowed out and reaching for Cas. He’s not there. 

  
  


** _Dean, Aged Sixteen_ **

“I hate you, jerk,” Sam yells.

“Right back at ya, bitch,” Dean says, but he’s talking to the back of the door that Sam’s just slammed in his face. Frustration boiling over, he kicks at the bottom of the door instead. 

“Jesus, Dean,” his dad snaps, walking in the motel room just at that minute. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Dean spits back with enough teenage petulance to stop his dad short. 

“Watch your tone, Son.”

“Sorry… Sir,” Dean says, but even he can hear the attitude in his voice. He knows that isn’t going to go down well.

His dad glares at him. “What’s going on?”

Dean glares back. What’s going on is Dean just told Sam they didn’t have enough money for him to go to the movies with his friends at the end of the week. That, in actual fact, Dad had just lost yet another job so the chances are they were about to pack up and leave so he wouldn’t have to worry because they probably wouldn’t even be in town by the end of the week. Somehow in Sammy’s obnoxious puberty-raddled head this is all Dean’s fault. 

He’s not about to tell Dad any of this though, because Dad smells like he’s downed a bottle of Jack. This is not the time to provoke him. 

Dean shrugs instead. “Nothing. Just me and Sammy having words. It’s fine.”

Dad shakes his head. “What’s crawled up Sam’s ass this time? Jesus, that kid’s a little punk right now. If I’d talked to my dad the way Sam talked to me, he’d have whipped my ass good.”

Dean bristles. It doesn’t matter how irritated he is with his little shithead of brother, he doesn’t like it when anyone else, not even Dad, _ especially _ Dad, bad mouths him. Sam’s a good kid, the fucking best. And if Dad laid a single hand on him, Dean would punch him out. 

Dad would probably kill him afterwards.

“Just school stuff,” Dean says, through gritted teeth. “It’s fine.”

“School,” John huffs dismissively, like it’s not important. He probably doesn’t even know it’s the single most important thing in Sam’s life. “Well, we’re out of here tomorrow so school stuff isn’t an issue.”

That is the fucking issue, Dean wants to say. “Maybe... maybe we could hang around a while longer,” he chances instead. “Sam’s doing real good here. And I’m... I’m doing okay too. I’ve even managed to haul my grades up.”

Dad snorts. And okay, Dean still isn’t exactly a straight A student but with a little help from Aiden his student tutor he is passing all of his classes. Even fucking Spanish. It’s kind of annoying actually that Dad and Sam don’t notice when he’s doing well. They’re quick enough to point out when he screws up. 

Dean’s irritation gives him the shot of bravery to keep pushing. “Maybe McCrevey will give you your job back, Dad. Or you could find another one even. There’s Hamilton’s garage at the other end of town.”

Dad scowls something fierce. “This town’s a dump. Nothing here for me, Dean. My face don’t fit.”

More like he turned up drunk at the garage once too often. 

“Dad,” Dean persists. “Please, just give it a try for another couple of weeks. I’ve got money saved from last weekend when I helped out at Aiden’s parent's store and I can—”

“I said no, Dean,” Dad yells, advancing on him. “And I don’t think I’m liking this new disrespectful attitude of yours. Maybe it’s just as well we’re leaving. You need to stop hanging around with those asshole kids. I saw that boy with red hair smoking the other day behind the store. I tell you now, I ever catch you smoking I’ll break your damn fingers.”

Dean almost laughs. Hell, if Dad’s pitching a fit because he saw Aiden smoking behind the store, god knows what he’d have done if he caught him and Aiden making out there the other night. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t catch me,” Dean tosses back flippantly, his mouth too smart and too quick for his own good. 

His dad lashes out and smacks Dean across the side of the face. Dean’s not sure which of them is more surprised. 

“I told you not to sass me,” his dad says gruffly, rubbing his hand across his thigh. 

Dean wonders if it stings. His face sure as hell does. His dad’s so drunk that he should have dodged that easily but he didn’t even see the blow coming.

Story of his fucking life. 

True to form Dad’s sound asleep in the armchair less than ten minutes later. Sam’s still sulking in the bedroom and Dean’s not sure which of them he’s most mad at. 

He’s supposed to be meeting Aiden to study tonight but he’s too scared to leave Sam and Dad alone. If Dad wakes up angry and Sam’s still being a brat, who knows what could happen? 

Dad taking his temper out on Dean is one thing, taking it out on Sam is not an option.

Maybe it’s for the best he doesn’t go anyway. Not if they’re really leaving town tomorrow. So what if he doesn’t say goodbye to Aiden? Not like Aiden will even remember him in a couple of weeks anyway. 

He does sneak a cigarette out of the pack he has hidden in the bottom of his duffel bag and creep outside to smoke it. 

It’s the closest he gets to saying fuck you to his dad. 

  
  


**CHAPTER FOUR**

Dean’s tired, slightly hungover and his throat feels like he chain smoked nearly a whole pack of cigarettes, which shouldn’t be surprising considering that’s pretty much what he did. It’s three am, basically the middle of the night, the studio car is waiting outside for him, and all he wants to do is crawl back into bed. And talk to Cas. Instead, he fills the biggest to-go mug he has with the strongest coffee he can stomach and pops more painkillers than he strictly should. 

Given his argument with Sam, and yesterday’s clusterfuck, Dean didn’t think to tell anyone about the last-minute change to the shooting schedule so the security guys who are on babysitting duty today aren’t due for another couple of hours. It shouldn’t bother him. He didn’t even officially have security until a couple of years back and all he does is complain about them hanging around, treating him like a defenseless kid. It still feels strange to leave without them.

Max, the security guard on duty at the house stops Dean when he walks out of the front door. “Mr. Winchester? What’s going on? I thought our guys were collecting you at 0630?”

Dean smiles, as reassuring as he can given how rough he’s feeling. “Change of plan, Max. Don’t worry about it. I’ll forward on the new schedule to the office now.”

Max isn’t reassured. He shifts anxiously, glowering at the car. “Maybe you should wait, Sir. I’m not sure Mr. Novak would approve of this if he were here.”

“If Mr. Novak were here then this wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

It’s a dickish reply. Dean takes a breath and tries to reign in his impatience, reminding himself none of this is Max’s fault. “Look, it’s fine. Call whoever you need to call and tell them you told me not to go and I went anyway. This isn’t on you.”

“That’s not my concern, Mr. Winchester,” Max says. “Your safety is.”

“For Christ sake,” Dean bitches, rubbing at his aching head. “It’s a studio car not a freaking Uber. I’ll catch you later, Max.”

It’s not until he climbs into the car, slamming the door and leaving Max’s concerned face behind, that Dean starts to feel uncomfortable with the situation himself. The screen is raised between the front and rear seats, which isn’t unusual, the drivers like to give him privacy, but it means he can’t even see who’s driving. Or where they’re going. Especially as it’s still dark outside. 

He knows they’re shooting on location today. He doesn’t know where the location is. Or how long it should take to drive there.

He should use the time to pass out and catch some more sleep. Or drink his coffee. Or message Cas. Or Sam. He should be doing anything other than sitting bolt upright on the luxury leather seats thinking about Uriel. The asshole that betrayed Cas and handed Dean to Alastair like a pig for the slaughter. The memories are right there though, clamoring at the front of his mind, vivid and bloodstained. Uriel driving him to the middle of nowhere. Uriel chasing after him. Uriel drugging him. 

Waking up trapped and bound. Alastair’s leering face staring down at him. Alastair’s knives.

His heart races in his chest now when he remembers, so sharply, like it’s still happening, the panic he felt when Alastair was hunting him down. 

Alastair, who’s still out there somewhere. Waiting. Watching. 

Dean’s hands are trembling so hard he can’t hold onto to his coffee. He doesn’t remember setting down his cup but he thinks he must have because he finds himself clutching the faded scar carved across his ribs. 

When he blinks, he sees flashes bathed in red: grinning faces, blood, Uriel, knives, blood, Alastair. 

By the time the car finally _ finally _ draws to a halt, his shirt is clinging to his sweat-slicked skin and he’s fighting to draw in a breath. He doesn’t wait for the engine to stop running before fumbling at the door handle, which refuses to open under his trembling fingers. Panic bubbles up in his chest, wraps around his heart, and squeezes.

When the door is opened from the outside, Dean literally falls out of the car. Hands and knees in the dirt, head down, puke crawling up his throat.

“Oh crap,” someone says, distantly, behind the pounding beat in his ears. 

A second —maybe minutes, or hours, who the fuck knows— later and Crowley’s voice is cutting through the dark fog clouding his head, choking his lungs, blinding him.

“Dean. Damnit, come on, Winchester, you’re not dying on my dime. That boyfriend of yours would kill me. Dean! Hey, you there? You with me? Try breathing, you moron.”

The words aren’t the kindest but Crowley’s voice is close, right by Dean’s side. He seems to know better than to touch him. Dean would probably freak the fuck out if anyone touched him right now. Like he’s not already freaking out.

Eyes still closed, Dean listens to his voice, concentrates on drawing oxygen into his lungs. 

“Are you back, Winchester? You with me?”

Dean nods his head, his neck stiff, joints popping. He opens his eyes, huffs out a breath. Gradually, he grows more aware of his surroundings: the almost fetal position he’s drawn himself into on the ground. Slowly, knees aching, he pushes himself upright, stumbles to his feet. The effort leaves him exhausted. 

“And we’re moving,” Crowley notes casually, sliding his arm around Dean’s waist, giving him a literal shoulder to lean on as the ground shifts and tilts alarmingly. “Okay, people, what the bloody hell are you standing around for? Get your arses back to work. This isn’t a peep show!”

“Shit,” Dean croaks, shame quickly replacing fear. 

“Indeed,” Crowley says, slowly leading Dean towards a trailer, his arm steady around Dean’s waist despite Dean’s swaying steps. “Not your smoothest entrance, but certainly dramatic.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Dean slurs, tongue thick and slow in his mouth. He’s struggling to make sense of things. One minute he was in the car and the next the world was closing in on him. It was as though one of his nightmares had followed him straight from hell. “Shit.”

“These things happen,” Crowley replies, helping Dean up the stairs to his trailer. 

“They do?”

“So I’m told,” Crowley says, sounding more bored than anything. 

Dean at least manages to take his own weight as he flips on the light and shuffles the few steps to the sofa while Crowley fetches him a glass of water. Dean guesses now isn’t the time to suggest something stronger, even though he’s sure whisky would do more to calm his racing heartbeat. He does rake through his jacket pockets searching for his cigarette pack. There should be one or two left. Nicotine might just help. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow when Dean lights one up, but manages to refrain from commenting, even when Dean coughs harshly as the first bite of smoke hits the back of his already rough throat. He does shove the water glass back at Dean insistently. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, a sip of water and half a cigarette later. “I don’t know what the hell that was.”

“Hmm,” Crowley merely observes. 

Dean takes another sip of water, relieved to note the tremor in his hands has started to ease. 

“Your brother and pretty boyfriend not with you today?” 

Dean shakes his head, takes another draw of his cigarette, trying at least not to blow the smoke in Crowley’s direction. It’s bad enough that he’s smoking in the trailer. He’s going to have to air it out before Sam and Cas appear. If they ever do. 

Crowley doesn’t actually seem to care about the smoke or Dean’s meltdown. He’s as unruffled as ever. Dean swears it would take an apocalypse to break through his unflappable exterior. “Would you like me to call them?”

Dean shakes his head again. “No. Thanks. I’m _ fine _.”

“Obviously.”

Dean scowls at him, takes another long drag of nicotine, then goes hunting for somewhere to stub out the butt. He’s already feeling steadier. And steadily growing more embarrassed. 

“Have you talked it over with someone?” Crowley asks.

“Talked what over?” Dean asks, pinching his cigarette out and throwing it in a cup for now. 

Crowley wrinkles his nose up, his distaste plain. “Whatever has got you smoking like a chimney. And having panic attacks.”

“One cigarette is hardly smoking like a chimney and I’m not having panic attacks,” Dean snaps, quick to deny it. Too quick. Too vehement. “I told you, I’m fine. I’m great.”

“I’m not one to freely dish out advice,” Crowley says, walking towards the door. “But, I do have a vested interest in your wellbeing, and I can spot a man on the verge of a breakdown a mile off. And you, my friend, are hurtling towards an emotional car wreck.”

Dean’s far too tired for this garbage. “Fuck off, Crowley. You don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”

“You look like washed out crap. You smell like an ashtray in a cheap boozer. You just had a major panic attack. And you don’t want the two people you care the most about to know.” Crowley counts the points off on his fingers. “You need to talk to someone, because as much as I do love publicity for my movies, I don’t want it to be because one of my stars has self-destructed.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s snipes. “I’m sure that would be a real inconvenience.”

“You have no idea,” Crowley retorts, dry as a bone. “Are you fit to work? Or do I need to reshuffle my schedule yet again?”

“I’m good,” Dean says. 

Crowley arches a brow.

“I’m good,” Dean snaps. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Crowley drawls. “Let’s just hope that make-up can work some kind of miracle.”

Thankfully, Annie and Debbie do work wonders and after a head massage from Donnie, coffee, lots of water and some painkillers, Dean is ready to face the rest of the crew. He ignores the sidelong glances and whispers, and sinks into the character of Jason Todd with even more relief than normal. 

The pre-dawn start is in order to film some shots and shoot stills of Dean and Idris standing against the sunrise. From what Dean sees on the monitors the early morning was worth it. Even just for the minute of footage. The best lighting rig in the world couldn’t replicate the glow. 

The rest of the day they’re reshooting a scene between Jason and Bruce Wayne. There are no masks, no costumes for once. Just the two of them face to face. In daylight. Out in the open. Talking. On paper, it might seem like an easy day, but an action scene would be less exhausting. There’s so much repressed emotion between the two men, so much that hasn’t been said. So much pain and sorrow, blame and guilt. The script has been tightened since the first time they shot a different version of this scene. The dialogue less convoluted, sharper, edgier. More subtext, less text. Crowley letting Dean and Idris use their instincts more than Metatron ever did. Trusting that they know their characters. 

There’s an electricity in the air that hasn’t been there before. And despite everything, despite his exhaustion and his headache and his screwed-up head, Dean feels elated by the time Crowley calls it a day. The rest of the crew are the same. They’ve all been working insanely hard, fast-paced and relentless all day, yet they’re all smiling when Crowley calls cut.

It’s the first time since filming started that Dean has felt a glimmer of hope that this movie might be as good as it deserves it to be. 

Idris seems to feel the same way, hauling Dean into a rough hug and grinning widely. They exchange ‘good jobs’ and ‘nice work’ with an apparently mutual sense of giddy relief. 

Crowley walks back towards the trailers with them, discussing the different slant to the movie he’s aiming for. 

Idris slaps Dean on the back before heading off to his own trailer, while Crowley walks with Dean towards his. At the bottom of the steps he holds Dean back for a second, a hand on his arm. 

“Good work today, Dean,” he says, cat-got-the-cream pleased smile on his face. “You really yanked it up a gear.”

Dean shrugs, brushing off the praise as usual, even though after months of Marv’s sniping it is nice to hear. “Just doing what you pay me for.”

“Well, you’re certainly earned your gigantic paycheck today.” Crowley hesitates for a moment and then settles a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I still mean what I said earlier; you need to talk to someone.”

Dean rolls his eyes, even as his heart sinks. He’d hoped his whole pathetic dramatics this morning had been forgotten. 

“You can try and brush it off all you like, but the truth is your head is a horror movie right now. It’s hardly surprising after everything that happened with Alastair in Scotland.”

Dean flinches at the name even though he tries his damnedest not to. Crowley doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t miss anything.

“Good Lord, even his name still scares you.”

“His name doesn’t scare me,” Dean bites back. “He’s not goddamn Voldemort. I’m fine.”

The look Crowley gives him is withering. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Dean. I need actors on top of their game, not a has-been who lives on nicotine and whisky. You can’t keep this up.”

“Fuck you. I worked my ass off today. I had one bad night, that’s all.” Dean scowls, immediately on the defensive. He’s a professional for fuck sake. He hasn’t had a cigarette since this morning. He sure as hell would never drink while he was working. Jesus Christ. Is that what people actually think? 

Pissed, Dean tries to shrug Crowley’s hand off his arm, but Crowley doesn’t budge, holds on tighter instead, drags him closer, so there’s no chance of being overheard. “You were brilliant today, but you’re on edge, darling, twitchy. You have issues coming out of the wazoo. You always have. It’s what makes you such a standout actor; all those nasty emotions pent up inside of you looking for an escape route. Acting is your therapy. Now, don’t get me wrong, normally this works out great for me, and for you. And the movie-going public. That’s how Oscars are won and box office profits are made. But I think you’re balanced right on the edge this time, and I don’t see anyone reaching out to pull you back. You’re going to snap, Dean. And after all this time, after a lifetime of nasty little traumas... it’s not going to be pretty.”

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t need Crowley of all people trying to lecture him on self-care. Like the guy actually knows anything about Dean’s life. About what goes on in his head. Like he actually fucking cares about anything other than seeing his own name in big shiny letters. 

“I’m fine,” Dean snarls. “We only have another couple of days of filming and then I won’t be your problem.”

“We have Comic-con in a few weeks, darling. I need you there. And on top form. We need to sell this movie to the masses.”

“What?” Dean says, surprised. He didn’t think they’d still be going to San Diego after everything. He didn’t think there would be anything to show them for a start.

“Comic-Con. We’re going to blow them away. Make them forget all about Marv. But I need you there, looking enthusiastic and happy. And healthy. Not like death warmed over.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, again, for possibly the hundredth time today, but with a little less bite this time. “I’ll admit I’ve had a bad few days, but I’m good, I swear.”

Crowley pats his cheek. “Darling, you are far from—”

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Dean almost trips over, spinning around at the familiar deep voice in his ear. “Cas, shit! Cas!”

Cas looks like hell. His hair is wild, even wilder than normal, there’s at least three days of scruff on his chin and dark circles hollowed out below his eyes. He’s wearing dirty jeans and a tee shirt that’s seen better days. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this scruffy. It’s unusual on a work day to see him in anything other than a suit. 

“Damn, Cas, are you alright? Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Dean.” Cas’s reply is stiff, his expression relentlessly neutral. “Perhaps we could talk in private.”

“I’ll leave you boys to it then,” Crowley says. “If you want to talk you know where I am, Dean.” And then Crowley slaps Dean’s back and walks away. Only, he misjudges, by several inches and smacks Dean’s ass instead, probably just to irritate Cas. He succeeds. Cas’s eyes narrow dangerously. 

Dean swallows hard, and steps forward to stop Cas from following Crowley.

“What was that all about?” Cas growls. 

“Nothing,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around Cas. It’s like hugging a marble statue, he’s so stiff. “Just Crowley being Crowley, you know what he’s like. What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?”

“Perhaps we could talk in your trailer,” Cas says. He doesn’t sound happy. 

Dean has been desperate to see Cas, missed him like crazy, but now Cas is here, dog-tired and apparently ill tempered, he’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t think he has the energy, emotional or physical, to handle a fight. And for some reason that’s what it seems like Cas wants. 

“Cas,” Dean starts, once he’s closed the trailer door behind them. “You know that Crowley—”

Cas spins around to face him, cutting his explanation off. “Crowley wants in your pants.”

Dean sighs. “Jesus, Cas, not this crap again. Not everyone wants to fuck me.”

“Perhaps not, but he does.”

Cas’s possessiveness is normally a bit of a turn on for Dean. He’d never shout about it, but secretly he enjoys feeling like he’s important enough to Cas for him to care that much, and usually Cas never steps over the line into douchebag territory. Usually. He’s hovering there right now though. 

“Crowley’s harmless. All he cares about is making movies and money.”

“And bedding his leading men.”

“Well, I’m not fucking interested in sleeping with Crowley,” Dean bites out, because he doesn’t like what Cas is close to implying. “I love you, Cas, I would never cheat. You should know that.”

Cas blinks then, scrubs a hand across his eyes and takes a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down. “I’m sorry, Dean. You’re right, but... he had his hands on you. It appeared... intimate.”

Unwilling to explain what Crowley was saying, or why he was leaning in so closely, Dean goes on the defensive, and changes the subject. 

“What’s going on with you, anyway? You drop off the fucking radar, come back looking like you haven’t slept for days and spoiling for a fight.”

“I’m not spoiling for a fight, Dean. I returned to discover that you had left home without security in the middle of the night, and no one had heard from you since. My people had to confirm your whereabouts with the studio, for Christ’s sake. You know better than this.”

Okay, so they’re gonna fight whether Dean likes it or not.

Dean attempts to keep his voice level. “The last-minute change of schedule wasn’t my fault. Plus, there’s security on set. There always is. You know that.”

Cas isn’t mollified. “You should have texted me or Sam. At least let someone know what you were doing.”

Yeah, he should have done but by the time that occurred to him, he was too busy having a panic attack in the back of the car. Once he was on set with the crew and usual studio security milling around there didn’t seem any point. He deflects. “You haven’t answered any of my messages in two days, Cas.” 

Cas tellingly doesn’t argue that point, his gaze briefly wandering somewhere over Dean’s shoulder before snapping back. “Even then, you should have called Sam.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, trust me, Sam doesn’t want to hear from me right now.”

Cas frowns. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m telling you straight. Sam’s mad at me after last night.”

“What happened last night?”

That stops Dean cold, his temper suddenly overtaking his determination to stay calm. “What happened last night? The meeting with our mother. Remember, I begged you to go with me, but you called off days ago because you were too busy doing something vitally important but incredibly vague that you couldn’t tell me about?”

Cas ignores Dean’s pointed dig completely and returns doggedly to his point. “Why is Sam angry at you?” 

“Because,” Dean says, turning his back on Cas now while he looks for his jacket. “Because he wants to kiss and make-up and play happy families with someone who abandoned us when we were kids. And I don’t want that cold-hearted bitch anywhere near me.”

Dean finds his jacket and what he actually wants in his pocket. There’s one solitary slightly bashed cigarette left in the packet. He lights it and takes a draw, then turns back around to face Cas. 

“And now you’re smoking again?” Cas’s voice is clipped, his eyes blazing.

Dean stares back, takes another draw, defiant, before replying. “Apparently.”

Cas crosses his arms over chest, eyes narrowing. “I’m not surprised Sam is irritated with you if you are being this much of a jackass.”

“You know what, Cas, screw you. You act distant for weeks. I find out you and Sam have been lying to me about my freaking mother, the woman who ruined my goddamn life. Then you disappear for days. But of course, ...I’m the jackass.”

“Ruined your life? That’s a bit dramatic even for you,” Cas says, snide and nasty in a way he never is. Dean blinks back his hurt. “You have loving relationships, millions in the bank, and a successful career. I’m sure everyone would love to have their lives ruined that badly.”

“So, what... I should thank her for walking out? Just because everything turned out peachy? Sure, ‘cause whatever. It doesn’t matter that I never had a childhood, right? That I had to explain to Sam why our mom left when I didn’t know myself. That some days I had to steal bread and peanut butter just so we wouldn’t starve. It doesn’t matter the shit I had to do just to make sure we survived.”

Cas seems unmoved. “I’m not saying that. But all those things were down to your father rather than your mother. She left you safe in his care. He’s the one who failed you.”

Dean bristles. Cas knows better than to bring up his dad. “My dad did the best he could.”

“That’s patently untrue.”

This is unwalked ground for both of them. Dean knows that Cas isn’t a fan of his dad. Of the decisions he made. But he has always had the good sense to keep his opinions to himself. “My dad loved us. No matter what you think. He made some bad decisions because his wife walked out and left him with two small kids and a broken heart.”

“Good God,” Cas yells, something else he never does. “You still talk about him like he was some kind of superhero. He was a pathetic excuse for a grown man who couldn’t face his responsibilities. He’s the one who dragged you around the country for no good reason. He’s the one who left you without enough food or money. He’s the one—”

“The one lying cold in the ground,” Dean points out icily, cutting short Cas’s rant. 

Cas blinks before lowering his pitch and calmly stating, “That’s not your mother’s fault.”

“No,” Dean says, forcing his voice to remain equally calm even though he feels as though Cas has just punched him. He takes a long draw from his cigarette, his hand shaking hard, flicks the ash into a dirty cup. “It’s mine. Thank you for the reminder.”

“That’s not what I said nor what I meant, don’t put words in my mouth,” Cas snaps.

Dean feels about two seconds away from bursting into tears for no good reason. It’s not something he’s willing to do in front of Cas, not now. “I think you should leave.”

“Dean—”

“Actually.” Dean changes his mind. “Maybe I should.”

“Leaving isn’t the answer.”

Dean laughs at that, bitter and cold. “Seriously? Everyone leaves, Cas. Sooner or later. My mom. My dad. Sam did. Even you when you have something better to do with your time than deal with me. Maybe it’s time I did some walking out of my own.”

“I’ve never once left you.”

“No? Where have you been the last few days then, Cas? Who are you having clandestine phone conversations with? Who’s taking up all your time?”

For the first time since the start of this stupid out of control argument, Cas doesn’t have a snappy retort.

Suddenly feeling sick, Dean tosses his cigarette, grabs his jacket and strides towards the door, shrugging Cas’s hand away when he tries to stop him. 

“It’s not what you think, Dean,” Cas says. 

“I’ve heard that before, Cas,” Dean shoots back. “Pretty sure those were Gordon’s exact words when I found him fucking a girl in our bed.”

Cas slams his hand out and shoves the door shut when Dean opens it. “Stop running away and listen to me.”

Dean stills, his fingers clinging to the door handle and heart pounding so hard he thinks it’s trying to escape from his chest. He doesn’t know how this argument escalated so quickly. Doesn’t know what the hell just happened. His emotions are going haywire. His mouth running wilder than his imagination. And he seriously doesn’t want to know what Cas wants to tell him. Doesn’t think he can bear it right now. 

“I didn’t want to tell you like this. I wanted to wait for the right time, not now while you are already... upset.”

“And whose goddamn fault is it I’m upset?” Dean yanks on the handle again. Cas swears and pushes his weight against the door, holding it shut. 

“Will you look at me, please?”

Dean doesn’t think he can. 

They stay stuck in a silent status quo until Cas eventually removes his hand from the door and takes a step back giving Dean a clear choice. It’s almost a full minute until Dean feels calm and in control enough to turn around and meet Cas’s eye. 

“Thank you,” Cas says, with feeling. Dean just looks at him and waits. 

“I’m not Gordon, Dean. I would never cheat on you.”

Dean licks his lips, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth, his eyes not quite meeting Cas’s. “There’s something though. Something you’re not telling me.” 

Cas nods. 

“What is it?”

Cas takes too long before answering. Long enough that Dean almost decides to leave. Eventually he speaks. Two words that makes Dean break out into a cold sweat. “It’s Alastair.”

Of course, Dean thinks. Of fucking course it is. 

“He’s dead.”

“What?” Dean takes a step backwards, stumbling into the door behind him. 

“He’s dead,” Cas repeats. 

“How? When? Are you sure?” Dean’s having trouble breathing. The room blurring at the edge of his vision. 

Cas nods. “I’m perfectly sure.”

“How?” Dean asks. Not sure if he’s asking how Cas is sure, or how Alastair died.

“Do you really want to know?” Cas asks. Dean can tell by the set of his mouth that it’s not a throwaway retort; it’s a serious question. 

Dean nods, even as his gut tells him he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Because I was right there.”

** _Dean, aged eighteen_ **

Dean knows this is a bad idea. But Dad’s been gone for weeks and the landlord is talking about throwing them out, or taking the rent out in trade on Dean’s ass. Maybe if the guy was less detestable Dean would consider that but the dude hasn’t showered since 1984. 

At least this is just a photo shoot. Dean’s not gonna lie, the first couple of times he worked with this guy, Alastair, he was seriously creeped out by the time he walked away. But it’s not like the guy actually touched him, not really. Nothing more than moving him from one position to the next, showing him what he wanted Dean to do. And a skeevy pervert taking photos of him is still better than a stinking pot-bellied greasy-haired pervert fucking him. 

Dean’s not sure if he’s sweating because he’s nervous or because Alastair has the temperature ratcheted up midday-sky high in his studio, but there’s sweat trickling down his face before he even steps out from behind the privacy screen.

“Come on Deano, we don’t have all day,” Alastair calls from not very far away.

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, and the last of his pride, and steps out from behind the screen. Acts as confident as he can while buck-naked. 

“Well, aren’t you just delectable?” Alastair grins. It makes his gaunt face look even more skeletal.

Dean tries not to hide his dick behind his hands. He told Alastair he was a professional model; he needs to stop acting like a scared kid. “Where do you want me?”

“Over on the hay bale, please. Would you like another drink first? Help you relax?”

Alastair already gave him a drink when he arrived. Dean’s not sure exactly what it was but it burned his throat like fucking acid. It did help him loosen up enough to strip out of his clothes though. And Dean can hold his liquor. One more shot of Dutch courage couldn’t hurt. 

The second glass tastes just as disgusting as the first but Dean does feel more of his nerves melt away.

Dean’s not exactly relaxed when Alastair starts taking pictures but his head is kind of buzzing and it’s enough to follow his orders without complaining. 

He shifts from one pose to the next. All positions Alastair likes. Dean draped over the hay bale, chin in his hands, ass in the air. Leaning back on his elbows, lips open, eyes closed. 

He tells Dean to sit on the hay bale. Legs spread. Dean does. 

“Will you touch yourself for me, Dean?”

Dean wants to say no. But Alastair promised him three hundred bucks for this. You don’t earn that kind of money for nothing. 

He runs his fingers across his belly.

“That’s it’s Dean, good boy. Slower now, let me see you. Brush your fingers over those pretty nipples. Now, tug on your balls, that’s it, kiddo.”

Dean does as he’s told. He plays with his balls while Alastair snaps away with his camera making encouraging noises. When Alastair tells him to lick his hand and jack his dick he doesn’t say no. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes and does as he’s told.

“You’re beautiful, Dean,” Alastair says. “Too pretty to be real. That’s it kiddo, pull on that little dick, get it all hard for me.”

Dean wants to argue that his dick isn’t little but it’s easier to pretend that Alastair isn’t really there. That Dean is back at the motel. Jacking off while Sam’s taking one of his three-hour showers.

“Spread your legs wider, Dean. Let me see your hole, kiddo. Come on, don’t be shy. Wider, that’s it, now tilt your hips up... lick your finger and touch yourself... just the rim, kiddo, you can do it. That’s it... look at you... that feels good, doesn’t it, baby? Now fuck your fist and suck on your fingers, good boy. Come on, suck your fingers for me baby, just like you’re blowing your boyfriend’s big dick, that’s it.”

Dean’s skin is on fire, and there are tears in his eyes but his dick is so hard he thinks he’s about to totally humiliate himself. 

“Beautiful, Dean, just beautiful. Now slip your finger inside your hole. Go on, for me, that’s it... just the tip and... oh, yes... yes, Dean. You really are a slut for anything in your hole, aren’t you, boy?”

Orgasm still humming across his skin, Dean’s panting, eyes screwed shut, face burning in humiliation when he hears Alastair set down his camera. He keeps his eyes closed as he hears Alastair stalk toward him, his nasal voice sending uneasy shivers down his spine. He flinches when Alastair touches him, his eyes blinking wide open.

Alastair smiles as he cleans the spunk from Dean’s belly with a small white towel. 

“Next time,” he says, eyes dark. “Next time I’ll let you play with some of my toys.”

  
  


**CHAPTER FIVE **

“Explain it to me again.”

Dean has a drink in his hand. Unfortunately, it’s just a beer. He has an early call time in the morning and no intention of showing up hungover again. He’s a professional despite what anyone else seems to think. Although, if he’d thought he could have persuaded Cas to stop for a carton of Marlboro on the way home he would have a cigarette in his hand too.

Cas is watching him warily from the other side of Dean’s desk. They’re in the study, a room Dean’s probably sat in less than a half a dozen times. When they finally arrived home, after the most awkward car journey ever, he led Cas here and sat down behind the desk. He doesn’t want to talk about this in a room he likes. He might never be able to set foot in it again.

Cas runs through the facts once more. His belligerent mood from earlier replaced by guarded patience. “In the last few weeks Alastair sent you several messages via an online social media account. It’s the first we’ve heard from him in over a year. Threatening messages. Violent, abusive and... graphic. We managed to trace him to the Claremont area. It took a few days to track down his exact location and for the last two days I have been keeping him under surveillance.”

“You’ve just been following him, that’s all?” After two years of looking, Cas found Alastair, the guy that almost killed him, and he did nothing but stand back and watch him. Dean finds that hard to believe. 

“Yes, Dean. I was observing him. Obviously, we planned on calling in the authorities, but we needed to figure out what he was up to first and after everything it was.... well, it was tempting to handle the situation myself.”

“Handle the situation?”

Cas pauses and considers his answer before replying, his words slow and careful. “After what he did to you, I’d be lying if I said the thought of killing Alastair hadn’t crossed my mind. Repeatedly.”

“But you didn’t? You didn’t touch him?”

“Trust me, Dean, I’ve never wanted to kill anyone more. It would have been so easy to put a bullet between his eyes, but in the end, I found that I just couldn’t step over that line. I have spent many years regretting the lives I’ve taken. As much as I wanted to end him for what he did, for what he might still plan on doing, I couldn’t claim the right to be judge, jury and executioner.”

Dean fights down a sudden surge of nausea. Breathes in deeply through his nose. Cas did the right thing. No doubt. He doesn’t deserve to live with Alastair’s death on his conscience. Not for Dean.

But truth be told, Dean wanted the bastard cold and dead on a slab. And he would have happily put him there himself. That callous sonofabitch murdered his father in cold blood. Left him to rot in back alley dumpster. Alastair was a monster, nothing more. Dean thinks that if he’d had a gun in his hand, if he’d had the opportunity, he could have pulled the trigger and lived with the consequences. 

He guesses, when it comes down to it, Cas is a better man than Dean. The hard fact is, Dean grew up skirting the edges of the law. He begged, borrowed and stole throughout his childhood. Did what he needed to in order to keep his family together. In order to survive. His conscience is a murky place. His morals wrapped in shades of grey. Cas’s are far more black and white. 

And while he respects that, he wishes he’d had at least a say in how justice should be meted out to Alastair. That Cas had talked to him about it instead of wrestling with the decision on his own. 

“So, tell me what happened again. Exactly.” Dean demands. 

Cas leans forward, elbows on his knees. Despite Dean’s frustration he can’t help but ache for him. The guy looks spent. Drained in a way Dean has never seen before. His explosive temper earlier suddenly seems more understandable. If Dean wasn’t still pissed, he’d want to tuck him into bed and make him sleep for a week. Instead he listens impassively as Cas repeats his story.

“I was following Alastair. Trying to figure out what he was up to. And I fucked up. He spotted me. Obviously recognized me. Jumped in his car, ran a red light at exactly the wrong time, a police car attempted to pull him over. He refused, probably thinking they knew who he was, took off like a madman and—”

“And ended up in a flaming car wreck at the bottom of a cliff?” 

“Exactly.”

It’s as hard to believe on the third time of telling as it was on the first. Dean suspects it’s going to take some time to get his head around the news. It’s a lot to take in. 

He shakes his head. “Jesus, Cas, it’s like something out of a bad horror movie. Police car chases. Burnt out wrecks? This kind of shit doesn’t happen in real life.”

Cas grimaces. “I assure you, it’s real.”

“And you’re certain he’s dead? Cause, not for nothing, but if this was a movie, he wouldn’t be. He’d have planned the whole damned thing and be waiting to—”

“This isn’t a movie, Dean.” Cas cuts him off sharply. “This is real life. I saw it with my own eyes. God, I can still smell the smoke on my clothes. He’s dead. Even a cockroach like Alastair wouldn’t be able to survive that inferno.”

“And the cops...”

“As far as we know the cops haven’t ID’d him. He had a stolen car and was using an alias... pretending to be a pediatrician from North Carolina. Without identifiable remains, I doubt they‘ll trace him.”

“And you?” 

“They won’t be able to trace me. They won’t even be looking for me. I was far enough back when he drove over that cliff that I’m not even a witness. As far as they’re concerned, I'm nothing more than another ghoulish tourist rubbernecking at a crime scene. And afterwards, I cleaned out the hotel room he was staying in.” Cas shudders, and Dean doesn’t even want to consider what Cas found in that room that could make him turn that deathly shade of pale. “I grabbed his laptop, removed anything and everything connecting him to you. Anything that might hint to his real identity. It’s over. I promise.”

Dean should feel nothing but relief. Cas hasn’t been cheating on him. Apparently, Alastair is no longer lurking around the corner waiting to jump out at him like they boogeyman. Dean should be down on his knees thanking Cas and, God knows, he doesn’t want another fight, but the fact is Cas has been keeping secrets from him again. Making decisions that affect Dean without even talking about it. Dean can’t pretend that doesn’t bother him.

Dean tries to keep his voice calm, but the frustration bleeds through in his words. “You could have told me about all this days ago, Cas. About Alastair. About what you were doing. Confided in me rather than lying to me. Rather than sneaking around and keeping secrets. Rather than treating me like an idiot.”

Cas frowns and leans back in his chair, hands steepled in front of him. “I was trying to protect you. It’s all I’ve ever done. I thought you would understand.”

Dean does understand. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay. And it’s worrying that Cas doesn’t understand why. “I don’t want you to protect me like this. I don’t need you to. Not by lying to me. And following Alastair around like that? Jesus... what if he’d... he’d attacked _ you _? If he’d abducted you like he did me? Jesus, Cas, you were on your own out there. Would anyone have known you were in trouble? Did you have back-up? Did anyone even know where you were?”

Cas doesn’t answer immediately.

Now that the thought has occurred to him though, the thought of Cas out there on his own so close to that murdering sonofabitch, has entered his head, Dean needs answers. “Who knew what you were doing? Who’s the ‘we’ in all of this? Did Alfie know? Hester?” Dean would feel slightly mollified if Cas’s team at least knew what was going on.

“Pam,” Cas blurts out. His publicist is not the name Dean expected nor is it reassuring. “As she’s in charge of your social media accounts, she obviously knew about the original messages, and then... I called Charlie,” Cas eventually admits, not quite meeting Dean’s eye. “She’s been helping track Alastair down. And— “

“Charlie?” Dean parrots, not letting Cas go any further. He can’t believe Cas has gotten Charlie tangled up in this mess. “What the hell? Why did you involve her in anything to do with Alastair again? It was bad enough you had her checking out my goddamn mother. At least that wasn’t dangerous. Jesus! This is screwed up.”

“She wanted to help,” Cas says, meeting Dean’s irate gaze head on now. “You know her, she wanted to find that bastard as much as anyone, and she’s not easy to say no to.”

That much, Dean has to concede is true. But, seriously. “Are you telling me your own guys couldn’t do the computer shit she does? With the resources your company has?”

Cas shakes his head. “You know she’s a tech genius. And honestly, when we discussed it, we decided we wanted this handled quietly. Unofficially. Just in case. Charlie can hide her tracks.”

Dean picks up on the word choice. “_ We _ discussed it? Who else knows? If you were doing this ‘unofficially.’ Who else knew what you were up to, Cas? Where you were? Because honestly, it’s not like Pam and Charlie were gonna be much help if Alastair turned on you.”

Dean suspects he knows the answer.

“Sam,” Cas admits. “Sam knew.”

Dean nods. “Of course he did. Mom, Alastair. Any other secrets you two are keeping from me?”

“Dean,” Cas sighs. “I promise you, it’s not like that. We only want to—”

“Protect me,” Dean cuts in. “Yeah, so you said. And like I said, I’m a big boy, I don’t need my boyfriend and my kid brother coddling me like I’m some kind of fragile flower.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t entirely agree. Neither does Sam. Your behavior right now, your mood is... erratic. You’re having nightmares and, I suspect, flashbacks, possibly even panic attacks. Not that you would ever admit it. You barely eat, you’ve lost weight and you’re drinking more often than usual. You refuse to seek help or talk to anyone and we think—”

“_ We _ think?” Dean fumes. “Nice to know that you and Sam are in agreement, bitching about me behind my back.”

“We are worried, Dean,” Cas tosses back.

“Well, Alastair’s apparently dead so I guess you don’t have to worry anymore, do you? That’s the answer to all our problems. Everything is just fucking great now.” Dean can hear how bitter he sounds. But knowing that Cas and Sam have been keeping secrets from him, discussing him behind his back, that hurts. That hurts a lot actually. 

“Dean,” Cas says, standing up and walking around the desk separating them, perching on the edge of it in front of Dean. “We’ve all struggled to deal with what happened in Scotland. You, me, Sam, even Charlie. We’ve all had our own issues: guilt and self-recriminations, anger and pain. But we’ve all dealt with it in our own ways. And yes, we all still have occasional bad days, but we know we have people we can turn to... therapists and friends. Methods of coping. But you... you _ won’t _ talk about it. And you’re _ not _ dealing with it.”

Dean knows that Cas is worried. That he’s not saying this to hurt Dean. That doesn’t stop him feeling like he’s under attack though. 

“What do you want me to do, Cas? Lay my head on your shoulder? Whine about my godawful childhood? Tell you all the things that Alastair said? Describe the collection of knives he had in that fucking room, ready to carve me up. Or do you want a detailed description of my dreams where I watch him cutting my dad’s throat? Do you really want to hear about how I wake up seeing Dad choking on his own blood? How I can fucking taste it? You think talking about any of this will help? Think I can weep on your shoulder and hug it out and everything will be okay?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I mean, no, I don’t think that would make everything okay, but yes I want you to talk to me. Or Sam. Or a therapist. Someone that will help you find a way to cope with your feelings.”

Dean’s stomach is twisting, nausea swirling in his guts. “I’m not going to a fucking headshrink, Cas. I’m not crazy.”

“Neither am I,” Cas points out dryly. “And yet you think it perfectly acceptable that I visit a therapist regularly.”

Dean rubs his hands across his thighs, dampness from his palms streaking down his jeans. “Yeah, well, it works for you, Cas. It wouldn’t work for me. It wouldn’t change anything. I’m a screw-up, I have issues. This isn’t news.”

“You aren’t a screw-up, Dean.”

“Well, you and Sam sure seem to think I am, otherwise you wouldn’t be treating me like a fucking child!”

“Dean,” Cas says, leaning forward and laying a hand on his arm. 

But Dean’s done. His head is buzzing and his skin’s crawling with the thought of Sam and Cas dissecting his every move. Gossiping about how fucked in the head he is. 

Pushing his chair back and away from Cas, Dean stands up. “I’m done, Cas.”

“What?” Cas looks up at him. 

“I’m done with talking about all this. Done with the whole fucking thing.”

Cas follows on Dean’s heels as he walks out of the study, but stops short of touching him, of trying to physically stop him. “Done with what? Where are you going? Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He’s too antsy. Too confused. His emotions scrambled in his head. And his heart. 

Cas sticks behind Dean as he storms through the house. Watches Dean grab his leather jacket and rummage through a drawer for his keys. Worry replaces the frustration in his voice. “It’s late, don’t be ridiculous.”

He follows Dean all the way to the garage where he grabs his bike helmet. “You’ve been drinking. Please, just stop, come back and talk.” Cas grabs Dean’s arm but Dean shakes him off.

“I’ve had half a bottle of beer, Cas, that’s it. I know you and Sam think I’m drowning my feelings in liquor but I’m not a damn idiot. And I told you, I’m done talking. You want to chat so bad, maybe you should call Sam.” Dean yanks on the helmet, and flips down the visor so Cas’s reply is muffled. 

His stormy exit takes longer and is less dramatic than is satisfying. He needs to open the garage door and the security gates, and Cas dogs him the entire time, but eventually Dean peels away from the house with a squeal of rubber. Leaving behind all his security, the two paps he caught napping in their cars outside his front gate... and Cas. 

Dean has never had a huge fascination with motorcycles, not until Jason Todd. He’d briefly flirted with the idea of buying one when he was a teenager, mainly because he figured he could pick one up dirt cheap, but his dad had made one of his few parental decrees and nixed the idea. Why he thought motorcycles were too dangerous but figured it was okay to routinely leave his kids alone in motels in the seediest parts of towns Dean couldn’t even begin to guess. 

But, since he had to ride one for his role as the Red Hood, Dean has been smitten. It’s freeing riding a motorcycle. Physically and mentally. Mainly because for once he’s on his own. No security. No cell phone beeping at him. No one making demands. Just Dean, his bike and the road. 

Cas and Sam aren’t fond of the motorcycle. Don’t share a shred of his enthusiasm for the sweet Indian that he bought a few months back. But for once, Dean stood firm, refused to give up the idea or the machine despite the never-ending lectures on safety and insurance and irate studio execs. 

With his busy schedule he doesn’t find the chance to slip out on his bike often. Especially as the studio banned him from riding it on public roads until he’s finished filming this movie. But fuck them, it’s not his fault they’re doing all these reshoots. And this... this is an emergency. If he doesn’t find some space to sort out his head, he’s going to implode. 

He rides for miles, concentrates on nothing but the tarmac in front of him and the gentle roar of the engine beneath him. Constants he can rely on. 

He doesn’t have a destination in mind, not consciously, but he finds himself drawn towards the sea, riding on roads as near the coast as he can. 

Eventually he stops, draws in to a viewing point by the side of the road, and takes off his helmet. It’s late, or early morning actually, and dark enough that he can’t see much, but he can hear the waves crashing against the rocks far down below him and smell the ocean on the breeze. 

It’s good. Refreshing. Dean closes his eyes and just takes in the stillness. The lack of noise. Let’s it wash over him. 

Dean hates fighting with Cas. Really hates it. Thankfully, it’s not something that happens very often. In fact, in the two years they’ve been together he can count the number of serious arguments they’ve had on one hand. Most of them have been over him working too hard and not looking after himself, or Cas throwing himself into a situation that nearly got him killed. They fight because they love each other, because they care and they worry. Normally, there’s shouting, swearing and a bit of door slamming. Normally they make-up before they go to bed. Or even better in bed. Neither of them has ever stormed out before. 

On reflection, Dean thinks that he might just have overreacted tonight. Maybe.

But this whole Alastair thing on top of his mother crawling out of the woodwork has really screwed with Dean’s head. And Dean’s head hasn’t been rational central for a while now. He suspects he can’t go on like this for much longer. It’s not surprising that Cas and Sam are worried about him. He has been more of a pain in the ass than usual lately. 

There’s a chance Cas is right. And Sam. Even Crowley. He needs to straighten out his fucked-up brain. He might even need to bite the bullet and talk to someone. 

The idea of talking to a shrink though, of telling a stranger anything personal, makes him want to run for the hills. But then, the idea of talking to someone he knows isn’t any better. It’s not like he even has that many friends that he can just call up and chat with. Sure, the contact list on his cell is full of numbers, but they’re just people he knows. People he’s worked with. People who think Dean is a handy contact to have. Hollywood is so fucking fake. Everyone loves you to your face and bitches behind your back. You can’t trust anyone. 

And that’s why the thought of Cas and Sam discussing him cuts so deep. They are the two people he trusts most in the world. The two people he thought he could depend on. It’s an insidious thought, that they’ve been keeping secrets from him. Lying to him. Talking about him. Discussing how messed up he is. Even if they have their reasons. If they’re not wrong. 

If he can’t trust them, he can’t trust anyone. 

Dean stands by the side of the road for hours, thinking himself in circles. By the time the sun starts to rise, the one thing he has decided is that he needs a break. Not in ten months or a year. But now. He’s going to finish these reshoots with Crowley but then he’s taking some time off. He hates letting people down, and he’s not sure how much it’s going to cost, financially or in bad publicity, but he doesn’t really care either.

It’s the first thing Dean says to Sam. And it does at least stop his brother’s furious rant before he really works himself up.

“You want a break?”

“That’s what I said, Sam.” Dean lays his helmet down on the coffee table in his trailer and combs his fingers through his flattened hair. He probably looks like death warmed over but he did at least make it to the studio on time. He might be a headcase but he tries to be a reliable headcase. He’d driven straight here only to find Sam already waiting for him in his trailer. And one of Cas’s guys standing outside the door. Cas is apparently back at the house in case Dean turned up there. 

Dean guesses he’s lucky there wasn’t search parties out combing the state for him. 

“Ok-ay,” Sam says, slowly, staring at him like he’s an unexploded bomb. “But are we gonna talk about how you took off on that deathtrap motorcycle without your cell? About how you stayed out all night? Y’know, Cas has been worried sick, Dean. We all have.”

“Well at least you and Cas have each other’s shoulders to cry on, huh Sammy?”

Okay, Dean apparently still isn’t over that. Good to know. He scrubs his hand across his face. He’s tired. Not just stayed-up-all-night-and-watched-the-sunrise tired, but bone-deep-want-to-sleep-forever tired. He does not have the energy to talk about his feelings right now. Suppression is a healthy coping method too, right? It’s worked for him for years. 

“Dean,” Sam starts. 

Dean doesn’t want to hear it. All he wants to do right now is climb inside the Red Hood and do what he’s being paid to do.

“Not now, Sam. Look, can you call Cas and tell him I’m fine? Tell him to grab some sleep and I’ll see him tonight. They’ll be waiting for me in wardrobe.”

Sam paces to the door, stands in front of it, mulishly blocking the way. “You still have ten minutes, Dean. We have time to talk,” 

“You really think ten minutes is going to cut it?” Dean asks, bluntly.

“It would be a start,” Sam retorts. 

“You lied to my face, Sam. Straight up lied. Cas was out there with Alastair and I didn’t even know about it. What if something had happened? We’re family, we’re supposed to have each other’s backs.” Dean shakes his head. “No, y’know what? I’m not getting into this with you. It’s not the time or place.”

“It never is, Dean. That’s the problem.”

Sam doesn’t even look mad when he says it, just resigned. He steps aside without another word, watching silently from the doorway as Dean walks away.

Annie and Debbie cluck over him as they make him presentable. Frankly, it’s a blessing that most of Dean’s face is going to be hidden under an eye mask today.

Despite his exhaustion, Dean throws himself into filming. It’s a relief to escape his own problems for a while and let the Red Hood take over. There’s only a couple days of shooting left and Dean’s determined not to let anyone down. Least of all Jason Todd. 

Idris and Chris seem to feel the same way. The scenes they’re shooting today and tomorrow are from near the dramatic climax of the movie. And while they are big on action, that’s not what Crowley wants to reshoot. Marv’s original action shots and stunt sequences aren’t the problem. It’s the lack of humanity in his movie that’s the real issue. People need to relate to their heroes _ and _ their anti-heroes. They need to feel a connection. Marv didn’t understand that. Crowley does. And he trusts his actors to give it to him. 

The set is tense all day. Not in the same way it was when Marv was shouting orders and complaining about every little thing Dean did. It’s more expectant than stressed. Like everyone can sense what they’re witnessing is something a little special. Idris and Chris are two of the best actors Dean’s worked with and it’s not hard to stay inside Jason Todd’s head. To rage about the injustice of Batman letting the Joker live when Jason Todd died at his hands. To let his own emotions, explode into the feelings of betrayal, anger and love for the man he depended on.

_ This _ has always been Dean’s therapy. The outlet for his emotions. Perhaps it’s not healthy, but it’s worked well for Dean. Until now. 

Honestly, Dean’s not quite sure how he’s still walking by the end of the day. Exhaustion hits him like a sledgehammer the second Crowley announces they’re done. Even with the gallon of caffeine he’s downed, and the few cat-naps he's snatched during the day, Dean’s barely slept in the past twenty-four hours. Actually, he’s barely caught much sleep for the past few days. At least. 

He hasn’t seen Sam all day. Or Cas. He had thought one or both of them would hang around. Every time he made it back to his trailer, he expected to find one of them waiting there for him. He’s not exactly disappointed that they’ve not put in an appearance, but he is surprised. 

This time though, when he stumbles up his trailer steps on heavy legs, opens the door and flicks on the light switch, he stops in his tracks. 

Cas is there. Sitting alone in the dark. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, even more rumpled, and the bags under his eyes are dark against his pale skin. 

Dean locks the door behind him, takes off his leather jacket, tosses it over the back of a chair and walk slowly towards the sofa. “Cas?”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean’s heart clenches at how broken Cas sounds.

He sits down on the coffee table in front of Cas so their knees are almost brushing, peels off his leather gloves and sets them down beside him. 

“When you left, last night, I thought... I was worried that you wouldn’t be coming back.”

Dean rubs his hands down his thighs, unable to reassure Cas. He doesn’t want to lie. Doesn’t think Cas wants to know the truth. Dean doesn’t really want to acknowledge the truth himself. There’s a tiny part of him that thinks maybe when he flew out of there on his motorcycle, he wasn’t entirely sure he was planning on going back. 

When Dean doesn’t respond Cas tries again. “I’m sorry for keeping things from you. Alastair and your mother. For not telling you the whole truth. I thought I was keeping secrets for the right reasons. I know that doesn’t make it okay.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, massaging the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s not fine, but I understand why you thought I couldn’t deal with this shit. It’s not like I’ve been the king of good life choices lately.”

Cas bites at his lip for a moment, obviously carefully formulating his response. “I have been concerned about you. The not sleeping, the barely eating, the anxiety I know you’ve been hiding. And I guess... I guess I acted more like your bodyguard than your boyfriend. Your partner. I should have discussed my concerns with you, not with Sam.”

“You did try,” Dean says. Because he has thought this over, and when he’s honest with himself he knows he’s been avoiding serious conversations with Cas and Sam for weeks now. 

“I should have tried harder,” Cas insists.

“Well, it’s not like I made it easy for you,” Dean admits, a rueful smile twitching valiantly at his lips. 

Cas takes a deep breath. “I just… I want you to be okay. I _ need _ you to be okay.”

“I am,” Dean says. Cas doesn’t look convinced. “I will be,” Dean amends. 

“You’ll ask for help? You’ll ask me for help if you need it?”

“I will. I promise,” Dean says, and he maybe even means it. “But this... the keeping secrets thing, Cas, I can’t... I just can’t. The only people I trust in the world are you and Sam, and when you...” Dean trails off. But Cas nods.

“I understand. I’m sorry we damaged your trust. We will do better, I will do better, I promise.”

Dean nods in return. He has to trust that Cas is being honest. He does trust Cas. 

“Are we okay?” Cas asks, his voice trembling for just a beat.

Dean leans forward, cups Cas’s cheek in his palm and kisses him, barely a brush of lips. The tension eases slowly from Cas’s shoulders. “We will be.”

Cas smiles for the first time, lop-sided and weak, but it makes Dean feel like the sun has burst through a cloud.

“Would you like to go home?”

Dean smiles back. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”

Everything isn’t magically okay. Dean can’t pretend he isn’t still pissed about the decisions and secrets that Cas and Sam have hidden from him. It’s going to take time to resolve their issues. But still, he feels lighter with Cas by his side again.

They bicker lightly about Dean riding his motorcycle home. Cas thinks he’s too tired to risk it. Dean argues that the ride would keep him awake. They’re still talking about it when Dean slips walking down the steps from his trailer and is only saved from face-planting by Cas’s cat-like reflexes. Dean concedes that Cas could be right and him being too tired to ride his bike.

In the car home, Dean brushes off any serious topics of conversation, and refuses to call Sam. Not because he doesn’t want to sort things out with his brother but because he’s just too damned wiped out to think about anything other than collapsing into bed. Cas doesn’t put up much of a fight. Things are too fragile between them. And he’s obviously just as tired and worn as Dean. 

They don’t even take the time to eat when they finally make it back home. Dean had a quick shower in his trailer already so he simply strips and falls into bed. By the time Cas showers and crawls in beside him, he’s more asleep than awake, but he’s conscious enough to throw an arm around Cas’s waist and hear Cas’s whispered, “I love you.”

Last day of reshoots starts with Cas wrapped around like him an octopus. It takes Dean all his strength to extract himself and switch off his obnoxious alarm. Cas grumbles sleepily and drags Dean back into his clutches. Dean is content to let him. He doesn’t know whether it’s because he was just flat-out exhausted or if Alastair’s fiery death has eased the constant fear he’s been living with, but he had the best night sleep he’s had in forever.

He lies content in Cas’s arms tracing his fingers across the outlines of Cas’s tattoos until he knows he’ll be late if he doesn’t move. Even then it’s a struggle to haul himself out of bed. 

Cas follows him into the land of the barely living just as Dean’s pouring coffee. 

“Perfect timing as usual,” Dean says.

Cas makes a low grumble of protest. “I would not call this time of the morning perfect timing.”

Dean smiles and sinks into the warm familiarity of Cas’s aversion to early mornings. “You’re adorable when you’re grumpy.” 

“I am not,” Cas says, grumpily. Dean chuckles softly and hands Cas a mug of coffee. 

Cas scowls at it as though it’s mortally offended him just by existing before 6am before taking a sip. “You are cheerful this morning.”

“Am I?” Dean says, surprised. He supposes he is. It’s amazing the difference a straight eight hours of sleep can make. “I slept well,” he admits. “And it’s the last day of reshoots.”

Cas hums around another mouthful of coffee. 

“I’ve told Sam I want to take time off,” Dean says. “Now. After today. Not next year.”

“You did?” Cas’s eyes go wide in surprise. Dean’s honestly shocked Sam hadn’t already told him. 

“I need to get my shit together.” Dean shrugs. “I figured some R and R might help.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Cas notes, noncommittally. But Dean knows his tells. Knows he’s secretly delighted. 

Dean’s phone lights up with a message to tell him the studio car is there. “Are you coming with?” he asks, pouring more coffee into a to-go mug. 

“Do you want me to?” Cas asks, his expression carefully neutral when Dean looks up. 

“I do,” Dean says, quiet but with absolute conviction. 

“Good.” Cas nods and hands Dean his coffee mug. “First, I need more caffeine.”

Cas is still sipping contentedly at his coffee when they make it to the studio lot. Arms brushing as they walk side by side. The caffeine must be working because when Crowley passes them in the opposite direction, a suggestive comment rolling off his tongue as easily as Good Morning, Cas successfully resists decapitating him. 

The easy mood between them vanishes the second they set foot inside Dean’s trailer. 

The place is trashed. The sofa slashed. Television smashed. Red paint, Dean hopes, hurled across every surface.

**DEan WinCEster DIE FAg**

written crudely across the wall.

Well... fuck.

** _Dean, aged 21_ **

“Hey, fag…”

Dean rolls his eyes. He’s not in the mood for this crap tonight. All he wants is a few beers, a couple of games of pool, and a little quick and easy fun. He’s really not down for brawling with some drunk hick with a chip on his shoulder. If he wanted to fight rather than fuck, he’d have gone to a less liberal bar looking for a hook-up. 

Tonight though, Dean just wants a few hours to relax. To act like a normal 21yr old. Maybe hustle a few bucks at the pool table while he’s at it. Dad’s been gone for over a month. Sam’s stressing about exams, and, as usual, Dean’s stressing about money. If he had any sense, he’d be putting in an extra shift at the gas station, but he’s not had a night off in weeks, and a guy has to let off steam occasionally. 

Matt, the guy he’s been playing pool with for the past hour, is at the bar buying a couple of beers. He’s already down twenty bucks thanks to Dean’s skills with the pool cue, but Dean’s thinking about making it up to him soon in the men’s room with another of his skills. 

“Hey, pretty boy, I’m talking to you.”

Dean sets his cue down on the table and rolls his shoulders. Just because he doesn’t want to fight doesn’t mean he won’t kick this moron’s ass if he needs to. 

Turning around, Dean smiles, all harmless boy next door charm and shiny white teeth. “Yes Sir, can I help you?

The guy, as redneck and wasted as Dean expected, appears taken aback for a second. 

“Can you… I’ll tell you how you can help me, boy. You can get your pansy ass out of here and let us decent folks drink in peace.”

“Look, pal,” Dean says, calmly. “I don’t know what your problem is, but all I’m doing is shooting a few balls and having a quiet drink. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Hey,” Matt says wandering back towards the pool table. “What’s going on?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

The old guy stumbles towards Dean, yellowed finger jabbing at his chest. “Listen you little faggot—”

“Hey!” The bartender shouts, storming across the bar and pushing the guy away from Dean. Matt steps in front of him too. Dean should probably tell them he’s perfectly capable of handling himself but it’s kind of nice to have other people defend him for once. All too often the only person to have Dean’s back is Dean. “Jesus Christ, Jeb, what have I told you about using that kind of language in my bar? Sit the hell back down and leave the kid alone.” 

“Come on, Gunner, just get a load of him, bending over and shaking his ass like a goddamn whore. I don’t come here to watch this kind of deviant horseplay.”

The bartender, Gunner apparently, busts out into peals of laughter. “Deviant horseplay? The kid’s playing pool, you old fool. So, either get the hell out, or shut the hell up. And for Christ sake stop staring at the kid’s ass. He’s way out of your league.”

“Hey, I’m not a goddamn fag,” the old guy barks back.

“Out!” Gunner points towards the door. 

“What? Aw, no, come on…”

“No, I’ve told you before, Jeb. I don’t stand for that kind of language in my bar. Once you’ve sobered up, you can come back tomorrow with an apology and I might just serve you.”

The old guy, Jeb, looks set to argue but when Gunner, who isn’t a small guy, crosses his arms over his chest and glares him down, he staggers out of the bar grumbling under his breath. 

The bartender’s gaze is a lot more friendly when he turns back to Dean. “Sorry about Jeb. He pretty much came with the fixtures when I took over the joint. He doesn’t usually cause trouble but I guess your ass was just too much for him.”

Dean grins. “Well, I can’t blame him for that, I guess. My ass is pretty spectacular.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” Matt winks at him. 

“Me neither,” Gunner grins, giving Dean a heated once-over that sends a blush straight to his cheeks. 

“Hey now,” Matt argues, good naturedly. “I saw that ass first.”

“Well, now, it ain’t just that pretty ass I’m interested in.” Gunner licks his lips, his eyes blatantly focused on Dean’s mouth.

“Hey,” Dean protests, with a wink that makes it very clear he doesn’t actually mind. “Don’t objectify me.”

Gunner and Matt both laugh. “Sorry, kid,” Gunner says. “How about I buy you a decent drink to apologize.”

“Sure.” Dean shrugs, falling into step between the two of them as they head back to the bar. Free drinks with two hot guys. Dean’s night is looking up already. 

And then maybe we can discuss how you feel about threesomes,” Matt adds.

Dean trips over his feet. Hell, yeah, his night is definitely looking up. 

  
  


**CHAPTER SIX**

  
  


“I think I liked the Internet threats better,” Dean comments flippantly. “Less mess to clear up.”

“This is not a joke,” Cas replies tersely without taking his eyes off his cell phone. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor when it comes to death threats. Dean is getting used to them to be honest. And this one is a bit too ridiculous for him to take seriously. Or maybe he’s just passed his limit on stressing out about this bullshit. 

“I’m not joking.” Dean shrugs. “Look what they did to my kickass television. And does that smell like pee to you? Did they piss in my ficus? Fucking monsters.”

Cas does hesitate mid message-typing to glare at him then. 

Dean sighs. “Lighten up, Cas. This isn’t that big a deal.”

Cas takes a picture with his cell and sends it along with his text to God knows who, before focusing his attention on Dean. “Not that big of a deal?”

“Well, it’s hardly the work of a criminal mastermind. I mean... _ Die Fag _... it ain’t exactly original. I dealt with worse than that in high school.” 

Cas pokes at the sad remains of Dean’s television with his foot. “I don’t think originality is utmost in the mind of most killers, Dean.”

“Well, you obviously haven’t watched enough True Crime documentaries, have you?” Dean quips, continuing speedily when it looks like Cas is planning Dean’s death himself, “You told me yourself, Alastair’s dead. Gone. No longer a problem. It’s the last day of shooting, that’s all. This is probably the work of one of Marv’s homophobic douchebag pals. Or a disgruntled PA that drank one too many red bulls and thought a little criminal damage was a good idea. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” Cas glowers. “Why are you not taking this seriously?”

Jabbing his finger at the writing on the wall, Dean explains, “They can barely write, Cas. I mean, come on, they didn’t even spell my name right. We’re not dealing with a Mensa member here. This dude didn’t break out of Arkham Asylum, he barely made it out of kindergarten.”

Despite Cas’s stern expression, Dean can tell he’s thawing just a bit. 

“I’m not saying we ignore it, Cas, I’m saying... alright... I am saying we ignore it.”

“Dean!” 

Dean throws his arms out to his sides, imploring. “Come on, it’s just one day. One more day and then we’re out of here. And whoever I’ve pissed off this time will be in our rear-view mirror. Shit! God fucking damnit.”

“What?” Cas says. “What is it?”

“My motorcycle. I left it here yesterday. I need to check…” Dean trails off as he dashes outside to check on his Indian. 

“Thank God,” Dean says, smoothing his hand over the machine. It’s perfect. Not a scratch. 

“Yes,” Cas deadpans. “Had your deathtrap been damaged that would indeed have been a tragedy.”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts. “It does prove what an idiot whoever did this is. I mean, a beauty like this, the keys sitting right there on the table, and they didn’t take the chance to steal her?”

“Perhaps they actually have some self-preservation instincts,” Cas says dryly. Dean tosses him a fittingly dirty look in reply. 

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, giving the motorcycle a soothing pat. “I’m not saying we don’t take this seriously, not really. I’m just saying... let’s not make a big deal of it. We can check the security cameras and ask around, but quietly, okay? I don’t want drama today.”

Cas’s jaw is set to stubborn but when Dean turns on every lash-fluttering, pouty-lipped charm he possesses, he relents with a barely concealed huff. “Fine. But security is sticking by your side all day.”

Dean smirks. “Yes, dear.”

“You are intolerable,” Cas huffs.

“I love you too.” Dean winks. 

Cas smiles at that. And okay, so he and Dean have a few issues to straighten out, but that gummy smile is worth putting up with a lot of crap. 

True to his word, Cas doesn’t make a huge fuss about the damage to Dean’s trailer. In fact, Dean doesn’t hear anyone mention it all day so whatever Cas has done, he’s done quietly. 

Filming goes smoothly. Crowley starts off the day in a fairly vile temper which is nothing Dean’s not seen before, but by the time he calls cut and wrap and Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne have eye-fucked for the last time, he’s back to his usual smarmy self.

There’s a spur of the moment wrap party which turns out to be a lot livelier than the original pre-planned one months ago when Marv finished filming. Everyone seems a lot more cheerful, optimistic that the movie isn’t going to end up bombing miserably at the box office. Even though Dean’s drained and Cas makes no secret of the fact he wants to whisk him off home straightaway, they stay for a few hours, long enough to exchange a few words with all the crew and arrange for one of the stuntmen to drop off Dean’s motorcycle at his house. He’s drunk a few beers and he’s tired and Cas is watching him like a hawk so he figures it’s the sensible thing to do. 

Sam turns up just as Idris and Betty from catering start belting out We Will Survive on the impromptu karaoke. Dean’s relieved that Sam missed his rendition of Mandy at least. Although he side-eyes Cas sternly for Sam showing up at all. 

“Dean.” Sam nods. 

“Sam,” Dean returns. 

Cas observes them warily. 

“So,” Sam says. “I’m sorry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, I think you were an ass—”

“Nice apology, dickwad.”

“I’m not finished,” Sam scowls at him, forehead scrunching up like a damn accordion. “I still think you were an ass to Mom.”

Dean’s eye twitches.

“But I guess I can understand why,” he finishes. 

Dean’s majorly uncomfortable with Sam calling her mom; as far as he’s concerned Mary Winchester is a lot of things but a mom is not one of them. 

“And I’m sorry for not telling you about Alastair being back. Or Cas looking for him. But I still think it was the right thing to do.”

“Did anyone ever tell you, you suck at apologies, Sammy?”

“And,” ignoring Dean completely, Sam carries on. “I’m still mad that you took off the other night. And I’m damn furious that you didn’t tell me about the panic attack you had a couple days ago.”

“How did you...? Crowley,” Dean growls. “That two-faced asswipe.”

“People care about you,” Sam snaps. “Suck it up, Dean.”

“Caring about me, huh? And that gives y’all the right to discuss me like I’m a fucking meal-ticket does it?”

Sam’s bitchface is epic. “No-one’s doing that.”

“No? Cause that’s sure what it feels like.”

“Well, I guess I am sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well... I’m sorry I dropped you on your face so many times when you were a baby.”

“And I’m sorry you stopped growing when you were twelve.”

“Bitch,” Dean huffs.

“Jerk,” Sam returns, and yanks Dean into a hug. Dean slaps him on the back and tries to hide a relieved smile. Fighting with Sam is almost as bad as fighting with Cas. 

Cas shakes his head. “Am I to take it from that show of passive aggressive sarcasm and non-apologetic apologies that you two have resolved your differences?”

Dean shrugs. “More or less.” 

They haven’t. Obviously. But they will. They always do. 

“So,” Sam says. “What are you gonna do with your vacation time?”

“You fixed it?” Dean asks. He had faith in Sam but sometimes even Sam can’t work miracles with the Hollywood suits. 

“I owe a few people a lot of favors. And by that, I mean you’re gonna be making personal appearances at birthday parties and charity balls for the next year, but yeah, I’ve pretty much fixed it. You’ve got a few weeks down time now, then Comic-Con, then three weeks free and clear before you start filming again. I can’t get you out of the John Wick movie after that, or the Disney thing which at least is only voice work, but then you’re a free man for as long as you want.” 

Dean nods. He can live with that. A few weeks off now should be enough time to get his shit together. Or at least start to deal with it. “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Sam says. “I should have made you take some vacation time years ago. I am kind of sorry about that.”

“Let’s not start on the Winchester apologies again,” Cas groans. 

Sam and Dean grin. 

“So, boys,” Crowley appears from nowhere, slinging his arm around Dean's shoulders. “We survived another battle.”

“It was a movie, Crowley, not a war,” Dean points out, sliding out from under Crowley’s arm before Cas’s good mood vanishes. “And you only turned up at the end.”

Crowley smirks. “Just in time to save the day.”

“We’ll see,” Dean says.

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Crowley slaps his palm across his chest with his usual dramatic flair. “I’m wounded. Just you wait until you see my previews at Comic-con, you’ll be signing up for the sequel by the end of the show reel.”

“I don’t think so,” Cas says, stonily.

Even Sam seems doubtful.

Dean’s not sure. But if Crowley salvages Marv’s mess, he thinks he wouldn’t actually mind taking Jason Todd out for another spin.

Crowley winks at him, like he knows damn well that Dean has a weakness for playing badass anti-heroes with daddy issues... he has a point. 

Cas growls.

And that’s the sign that it’s time for them to leave. 

***

There’s no lying on the beach for Dean and Cas in the weeks after the movie’s wrapped. There’s no vacation in Tahiti or walking in the rain in Paris. Instead there’s a pack of half-smoked cigarettes hidden in Dean’s sock drawer that Cas pretends not to know about, and a bottle of Jack in his bedside table that he only drinks after the worst of his dreams. 

And to Dean’s chagrin there’s talking. Too much damn talking. But then there’s angry sex. And more talking. And make-up sex. And yet more talking. Cas teaches Dean yoga and meditation. Which is of course followed by sex because as Dean warned Cas, teaching him yoga positions while half-naked was never going to end any other way. 

Sam and Dean talk too. Less often and with fewer distractions. 

Things are still tense between them, awkward in a way that makes Dean’s insides squirm when he thinks about it. He hates fighting with Sam. It physically hurts him to feel like they’re on opposite sides of the fence on anything let alone something so damn important. But as far as Dean is concerned, it’s impossible to resolve all their arguments while Sam is in contact with Mary, not while Dean is refusing to have anything to do with her. 

The subject of his mother is a point of contention between Dean and Cas too. 

“I don’t understand why you refuse to give her a chance,” Cas says. 

Dean thunks his head back against his sun lounger. At least this argument is taking place beside the pool. It’s a change of scenery for the same old fight. 

“Why should I give her a chance, Cas? She chose to leave. She walked out. Her decision. She doesn’t get to decide now she wants to be a mom.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Dean. Everyone. Doesn’t she deserve a little forgiveness?”

“No,” Dean says. “She doesn’t. She didn’t make a mistake. She made a choice. And she didn’t choose me and Sam. She chose herself. Well, as far as I’m concerned, she can live with that.”

Cas sighs and sits up, pushes his shades up on top of his head. “She made one bad decision, Dean, when she was young and overwhelmed. She doesn’t deserve to be hung for it. I’ve made horrific decisions in my life. Truly terrible choices. Choices that got people killed. And yet you forgive me.”

Dean doesn’t like that comparison, not at all. “There’s nothing to forgive, Cas. You were a soldier, a fucking kid, following orders. You didn’t make those choices, you didn’t have any say, you just did your job. That’s completely different. You thought you were doing good, for Christ’s sake. And, when it came down to it, you did the right thing. Even though those ungrateful assholes kicked you out of the army. Even though you damn near lost everything. “

Cas has told Dean everything about his past. And no matter how guilty Cas still feels about his time serving his country, Dean refuses to blame him at all.

It’s not easy standing up to any authority figure. Not when they’re in control of your life. Sometimes you have no option but to shut up and obey orders if you want to survive.

At the end of the day, when his CO ordered him to pull the trigger on an innocent civilian, Cas did say no. He walked away, reported his senior officers, blew the whistle on the whole shady lot of them. Damn near ruined his life at the same time. His career-military parents disowned him, and only one of his brothers still talks to him. What Cas did took guts. Dean’s nothing but proud of him.

Cas just stares at him for a second, head tilted to the side and eyes squinting against the sun. Dean’s waiting for his normal response that what he did was too little, too late, but Cas’s years of therapy and weirdo mindfulness crap is apparently finally paying off because he lets Dean’s stout defense of his actions go with just a small nod. 

“Still,” he says, not quite ready to cede the argument. “She’s your mother. She just wants a chance to make amends.”

Dean snorts. Make amends! For twenty-five years of abandonment. Good luck with that.

“And,” Cas continues. “If it was my mother, despite everything she’s done, all the hurtful things she said, I would jump at the chance to form some kind of relationship with her again.” 

Now that’s a surprise. “Seriously?” Dean stares at Cas. “After everything, you would want to talk to her?”

“She’s my mother,” Cas says, as though that’s explanation enough. It’s not. Not for Dean anyway. “My father was emotionally distant my whole life, too wrapped up in his work to spend any time with his children. My relationship with him was already non-existent. But until I was discharged from the army, I had a fairly close relationship with my mother. I miss her.”

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Dean admits, keeping any hint of judgement out of his tone. “You know if you wanted to build bridges... you could talk to Gabe, see if he would talk to her for you.”

It’s Cas’s turn to snort this time. “Gabe would rather eat his own eyeballs than have anything to do with our family.”

From what little Cas has divulged about the rest of his family, Dean can’t say he blames Cas’s brother. 

“I’m sure I’ll hear from her one of these days,” Cas says with a shrug and then adds from absolutely nowhere. “Are you sure you aren’t being so hard on your mother because you feel like she’s trying to replace you?”

“I’m sorry, what?” That is hands down the strangest thing Cas has even said to him. 

“I mean, in Sam’s life. You have always played the mother role and—”

“Whoa, hold on a minute there, Freud,” Dean snaps, creeped out. “I’ve never tried to be Sam’s mother.”

“Dean,” Cas says patiently. “You practically raised him. No... you _ did _ raise him. You have been his brother, his father and his mother. You have always been there for him and you are undoubtedly the biggest parental influence he has ever had. He loves you very much. Your mother reappearing will not change that.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably on his lounger and grumbles, “I’m not Sam’s damn mom.”

“Perhaps you could think about giving her a chance. For Sam’s sake if nothing else. For Elle’s sake too. It would be nice if she had more family in her life.”

Dean doesn’t want to give that woman another chance. He hates her. He hates that she thinks she can just walk back into their lives and make herself at home when she’s done nothing to deserve the title of mom or grandmother. He doesn’t trust her. And he doesn’t believe she doesn’t want anything. He really doesn’t want to watch her break Sam’s heart when she up-and-leaves again. 

“I’ll think about it,” he says though, despite all his misgivings. Because he’s sick of the disappointed looks. Because he doesn’t want another argument about it all. Especially not now. 

Not when Cas is over there on that sun lounger looking hot as sin in just a tiny pair of swim shorts. The rare sight of his tattoos on full display under the light of the sun does weird things to Dean’s belly. Not in an ‘I shouldn’t have eaten that last burrito’ kind of way but in a ‘holy fuck I can’t believe anyone this hot could love me’ kind of way. It suddenly seems ridiculous that they’re both lying out in the sun half naked and they aren’t touching.

“You alright there?” Cas asks him, lips quirked like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking. 

“Actually,” Dean says, glancing down at his chest. “I think I might be burning. You mind helping me rub on some lotion?”

Cas is off his lounger in a second, sun lotion in his hand. Dean blinks up at him, wide-eyed. God, he’s fucking gorgeous. He doesn’t burn and freckle in the sun like Dean, he turns a delicious shade of honeyed gold like he was made to live outdoors in the heat of summer. Dean doesn’t hide how his eyes rake over the intricate trail of tattoos that spread over his arm and chest. Licks his lips when he follows the light trail of hair down his abs—his beautifully toned abs that put Dean’s soft little belly to shame— down to the prominent bulge in his teeny tiny swim shorts. 

“Where do you want me?” 

Cas smirks. “On your belly, freckles.”

Dean flips over onto his belly without a word of complaint. Pillows his head on his folded arms and shimmies his ass for Cas’s benefit.

“Tease,” Cas accuses, slapping Dean’s ass as he straddles his thighs on the lounger. 

“Like you’re not a big fat tease,” Dean grumbles, shifting on the sun lounger in an attempt to not squash his nuts. “Wearing those tiny speedos.”

“I’m only big and fat where it counts,” Cas boasts, in a very unCas like manner before squirting a blob of lotion, inexplicably _ cold _ lotion, straight down the center of Dean’s naked back. The high-pitched squeal Dean releases drowns out Cas’s laughter, but before Dean gathers his wits enough to complain, Cas is massaging the cream into his skin. His muscles relaxing under the firm pressure of Cas’s clever fingers until Dean is barely more than a puddle of contented goo. 

Cas rains a litany of kisses across the ridge of Dean’s shoulder blades and then the heat of his body drifts away as he shuffles further down the lounger and his fingers inch a little lower. Sliding under the waistband of Dean’s perfectly respectable swim shorts. Massaging lotion into the meat of Dean’s ass despite the fact he’s unlikely to catch the sun there.

Dean muffles his moan against his arm. And then is forced to do the same with his scream as Cas drags Dean’s shorts down to his thighs and unexpectedly squirts more cold lotion down the cleft of his ass. 

“I hate you,” Dean says, although given the way he’s melting under Cas’s touch, the words don’t carry much meaning. 

Thankfully Cas ignores him completely and concentrates very hard on taking Dean apart on his fingers instead. Sun Lotion might not be a recommended lube but Dean has no complaints. Until with no warning Cas stops, and removes his fingers from where they’re buried inside Dean’s ass, working the kind of magic that makes Dean want to write odes to his sexual prowess. 

“Why are you stopping?” Dean whines. 

“I think we should perhaps continue this inside,” Cas says, wiping his fingers on Dean’s towel before leaning over him and pressing a bruising kiss to the crook of his neck. “On a bed. With real lube.”

Dean rolls over onto his back, his dick springing up hard and needy between them, and grabs Cas’s wrist when he tries to stand up. “Oh no, bucko, don’t you dare go anywhere. You started this. You finish it.”

“Dean,” Cas says, the laughter shining in his eyes making them appear even bluer than normal. “I don’t think this is the safest place for me to fuck you.”

Dean half sits-up, hand curling around Cas’s neck, holding him right where he is. “I don’t care. Fuck me now.” The kiss he lays on Cas, searing hot and open-mouthed dirty, leaves absolutely no room for discussion. 

Dean only allows Cas to stand up long enough to strip out of the ridiculous speedo that is straining so hard under Cas’s dick that Dean’s momentarily afraid Cas is going to injure himself taking them off. 

Dean kicks off his own shorts and spreads his legs in invitation. 

“We really need to keep some lube out here,” Cas says looking at the sun lotion doubtfully.

“I swear to god, Cas, if you don’t fuck me in the next two minutes, I’m gonna go in the house and find that purple dildo you bought me for Valentine’s Day, and I’m gonna fuck myself. And I’m not gonna let you watch.”

Dean schools his features to look as stern as possible. Not easy while he’s fisting his dick with Cas standing, naked and beautiful, watching him. 

His bluff must be reasonably convincing because Cas only hesitates for a second before he’s slicking himself up with lotion and climbing back on the lounger between Dean’s legs. 

It turns out that Cas was right. Sun lotion does not make a good lube. Lying face to face, one leg thrown over Cas’s shoulder and the other wrapped around his waist, it’s hard to hide the fact that it hurts more than it should when Cas sinks inside of him. 

Cas stops halfway. “This is a bad idea.”

“No, Cas,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “What’s a bad idea is you stopping right now.”

“Dean.” How Cas can sound so pissy when his dick is in Dean’s ass is just unfair. 

Dean takes matters into his own hands, so to speak, and with a wriggle and a squeeze and a bit of imaginative thinking, manages to sink down onto Cas’s dick himself. 

“You are a stubborn idiot,” Cas gasps. 

“Well, sweetheart,” Dean winks, the ache in his ass already easing. “Why don’t you just try fucking the stubborn right out of me?”

Objections forgotten now he’s finally balls deep inside of Dean, Cas takes up the challenge with enthusiasm. And he’s a goddamn expert at nailing Dean just right, angling his hips and brushing the spot that makes Dean’s cock leak all over his belly. 

The sun lounger groans, Cas pants, and Dean whimpers with every thrust. Cas’s face flushes red, sweat dripping down his hairline onto Dean’s chest. 

Knowing Cas’s tells, the stutter of his hips, the way his teeth bite into his bottom lip, Dean wraps his hand around his own cock and jerks himself to completion. His spunk splashing white hot across Cas’s belly and his hole tightening around Cas’s dick, which is probably what sets him off in the end. 

Cas comes almost silently, chest heaving and eyes clenched shut. As always, it’s the prettiest thing Dean has ever seen. 

Dean’s ass stings like a fucker when Cas eventually pulls out, collapsing on top of him. His dead weight, the final nail in the coffin for the sun lounger which gives up on life with a sudden and fatal bitter creak of complaint. 

Dean, the filling in the Cas and sun lounger sandwich, grunts, the breath knocked out of him in a rush. Cas’s eyes scrunch in worry, panicked apologies rolling off his tongue until he realizes that at least half of Dean’s problem is the laughter stuck in his throat. 

Although it’s easier to breathe when a laughing Cas rolls off of him, Dean catches his hand to stop him going too far.

“God, Cas,” Dean chokes out between heaving breaths and intermittent giggles. “That was a terrible idea. Couldn't you have waited until we made it to a bed?”

The slap that Cas lands on Dean’s ass as he helps him to his feet is entirely deserved. 

  
Cas folds his arms over his chest. “Absolutely not, Dean.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Dean points out.

“Well, I am,” Sam says. “And I say no, too.”

“You’re not my boss,” Dean splutters. 

“No?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure, bitch. I pay your wages.”

“No, Jerk, I pay my wages. And everyone else’s. And deal with all the boring business shit, as you call it. And set your schedule.”

“That...” not true, Dean was about to say, but when he thinks about it, it’s pretty much true. “...not the point,” he finishes weakly instead. 

Sam smiles, leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers like he’s some kind of evil genius. “Face it, big brother, I control your life. I am the puppet master. You are mine to—”

“Sam,” Cas chides, “stop teasing your brother.”

Dean is so very tempted to stick his tongue out at Sam that he feels like he’s been hit in the back of the head with a four by four plank of deja-vu. It’s kind of nice to fall back into the childhood feelings of affectionate brotherly teasing. Or it would be if that didn’t place Cas in the role of his dad. Which... no, thank you. Dean settles on scowling at the pair of them instead. “I don’t see why I can't—”

Cas jumps down his throat before he even finishes. “Because it’s a stupid idea.”

Dean turns his glare fully on Cas. “It’s a couple of hours away. We’re not exactly talking full-on road-trip here.”

Cas appears wholly unperturbed by Dean’s glare. “We are going together. You, Sam, and me. Abner is driving. My other two men will already be there ensuring security is adequate. This has all been arranged for over a week.”

“Okay, so... just me hear me out...” Dean gives it one last try even though he knows he’s about to be shot down in flames. “None of your pre-planned schedule changes except, I’m on my motorcycle and you’re in the car. I mean, there’s literally no difference. I still arrive when you do, I—”

“Not a chance,” Sam says.

“How cool would it be if I swooped in all Jason Todd badass on my bike though?” Dean says. 

“I think arriving in one piece in a car would be far “cooler” than ending up as a mound of road rash in the middle of the freeway,” Cas says, finger quoting “cooler” like the gigantic dork he secretly is. 

“I’m just as safe on a motorcycle as—”

“You know Jess’s friend, Jodie?” Sam asks, apropos of nothing. 

“What?” Dean blinks. 

“She’s the one that’s the trauma nurse?” Sam expands.

“Sure,” Dean says, he’s met her a couple of times he thinks. Nice woman, as far as he remembers. He has no idea why they’re discussing her now. 

“You know what she told me they call motorcyclists in the trauma department?”

“What?” Dean says, although he suspects he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Donors,” Sam says flatly. 

Dean groans. “Sam.”

Cas’s expression turns stormy. “We’re travelling together in the car. I’m not discussing this any further.”

Dean knows when he’s beat. He shoots his brother the filthiest of looks though. Sam doesn’t even pretend not to look smug. Asshole.

“I still don’t think it’s fair that we can’t go for the whole weekend,” Dean grouses, moving from one argument to another. “Or at least to the Star Wars panels on Friday.”

“Do we really need to talk about this? Again?” Sam asks.

“I’d wear a mask. I could be a stormtrooper. No-one would even know it was me.”

“You’re such a geek,” Sam snorts. 

Before Dean can retaliate, Cas cuts him off at the pass. “It’s not doable. Security wise. It’s bad enough when you’re on the panel, but in amongst those crowds for that length of time it would be impossible to keep you safe.”

“But, it’s not like... like that psycho is still hunting my ass, is it?” Dean says, frustrated even though he knows Cas and Sam are just looking out for him. “We’re not at Defcon One or anything, are we?”

“No, Dean,” Cas says, “but you are a successful and popular bisexual actor in a serious relationship with a man in America. You receive hate mail on a daily basis from small-minded bigots and religious groups. I’m afraid there are always going to be a certain amount of threats and security worries. Even without Alastair in the picture.”

Dean doesn’t flinch at the mention of Alastair’s name anymore. But he still doesn’t like saying it. Or hearing it. Even now, Dean still feels sick to the depth of his guts when he thinks about him. About the hell he’s put Dean through for the past couple of years. And put Cas and Sam through too. There’s still a part of Dean that doesn’t quite believe he’s really gone. Despite Cas’s assurances, he doesn’t feel any closure. Any sense of relief.

On the other hand, he really could care less about the daily hate he receives from bigoted assholes. He’s not going to waste a second of his time caring about any idiot feeling butthurt over the fact he’s in love with a dude. Life’s too short for that shit. 

“Comic-con is just too insane,” Sam adds, less teasing in his tone now. “The crowds there could swallow you up in seconds. It’s a security nightmare.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean sighs, dropping down onto the easy chair in Sam’s office. 

“Sorry,” Sam says, sympathy at the edge of his smile. “I know you’d love to get your geek on.”

Sam’s phone rings just then saving him from Dean’s witty rejoinder. Cas walks across the room and perches on the arm of the chair, arm draping around Dean’s shoulders, fingers kneading at his nape, easing the tension that’s crept in. Dean leans in against him with a sigh. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” Dean says, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Sam’s phone call. 

“I know,” Cas says, his fingers combing through Dean’s hair like he’s petting a big old cat. “And we’re not trying to be overbearing.”

“Before... before Alastair,” Dean gets out. “I could still pretend that I had a normal life, y’know. I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder. And Sam wasn’t so on edge. I always thought that when he was gone, we’d be able to go back to normal. To some kind of normal anyway. But even now that he’s no longer a threat, that we don’t _ think _ he’s a threat, he’s still controlling my fucking life.”

“He’s _ not _ a threat, Dean,” Cas says firmly. “He’s dead. He has no control over you. He never did.”

“That bastard fucked me up, Cas,” Dean admits. 

“You’re not fucked up,” Cas argues. Which is kind of him because they both know he is.

“I am. I mean, I’m trying not to be, but I know I am.”

“Perhaps,” Cas’s fingers still on the back of his neck and Dean can feel the hesitation in the question. “Perhaps talking to a therapist would help?”

This is far from the first time Cas has suggested it. Especially over the last few weeks. Usually Dean dismisses the suggestion out of hand. This time he doesn’t. 

Cas jumps on his silence. “I think you would like my therapist. Tessa is very good. Straight talking. Or she could suggest someone else if you preferred.”

“I... I’ll think about it,” Dean finally says. And he means it this time. He still doesn’t see how talking about all the shit that goes on inside his head would help, but not talking about it hasn’t exactly been working out for him either lately. Maybe it’s time he aired some of his issues. He figures he owes it to Cas, and Sam, to at least try. 

Cas kisses the top of his head. 

Sam’s voice cuts through the peace of the moment. “Seriously? Jesus Christ.”

Dean looks across at his brother, watches him scrub his hand across his jaw, his shoulders drawing into a tight line beneath his shirt. 

“No, I know, Pam. Yeah, I will.”

Dean sits up when he hears his publicist’s voice uttering curses from the other side of the line. Cas’s hand stays a comforting weight on the back of his neck, but Dean can feel the tension growing in his touch.

“I’ll deal with it,” Sam says. “Yeah, thanks, I’ll call you back, okay.” With the call cut, Sam stands up and paces two lengths of the room before he stops and meets Dean's questioning look. “The press knows about Mom. Pamela’s been inundated with phone-calls asking if it’s true we’re feuding about it. Apparently, they’re gunning for you.”

“How? How the hell did the press find out?” Dean asks, only Cas’s firm touch on the back of his neck stopping him from snapping to his feet. No more than a handful of people know about Mary’s reappearance and there’s no way any of them would talk to the press. There’s only one obvious person who could have blabbed. The question is why would she? Why now?

Before Sam can reply there’s a sharp knock on his office door. Jess walks in a second later, Elle wriggling in her arms. She shoots Dean an apologetic look. “Sam, your mom’s here. She says she needs to speak to you.”

Dean’s stomach swoops but he doesn’t have time to react before Mary rushes into the room. She’s flustered, obviously, her hair bursting loose from its ponytail and face flushed. Jess leaves as suddenly as she appeared, shutting the door softly behind her, blocking any drama from reaching Elle’s young ears. Dean tries not to react to the fact that Mary knows where Sam lives. That she’s obviously been here before. 

“Sam,” Mary says, not noticing Dean and Cas immediately. “I’m sorry to burst in uninvited.”

“Did you talk to the press?” Sam asks, cutting straight to the point. 

Mary shakes her head, her hands clasping anxiously at the purse in her hand. “No, I didn’t, I swear.” At least she doesn’t pretend not to know what Sam is talking about. 

“Then how the hell did they find out?”

Mary’s voice quivers under Sam’s furious question. “It was an accident.”

“An accident?” Dean repeats dryly. 

Mary’s startles at Dean‘s voice. “Dean,” she says, her attention snapping towards him. “I didn’t see you.”

Dean doesn’t want to engage in chitchat. “How the hell do you _ accidentally _ talk to the press?”

“I didn’t,” she insists, eyes flitting to Cas and back to Dean. Dean isn’t going to explain who Cas is or waste time on introductions. If she knows anything about them, she already knows who he is anyway.

“Well, you damn well talked to someone,” Sam snarls.

“I didn’t... I didn’t mean to. It just… it slipped out. There was a man. A director. He said... he said he’d seen my work, and he could help me.”

“And you didn’t think that was suspicious?” Dean scoffs, because Jesus Christ that kind of thing doesn’t happen in the real world, not to struggling theatre actors, not without giant strings attached. “Stop bullshitting and just tell us the damn truth for once.”

Mary glances towards Sam but he doesn’t jump in to defend her. 

“I know you don't trust me, Dean,” Mary starts. “But I swear, when I got back in touch with you boys it wasn’t for any underhanded reason.”

Dean doesn’t mean to sneer, but he just can’t stop himself.

“It wasn’t. I just wanted to see if there was any chance, any chance at all, that we could form some kind of relationship.”

The hurt on Mary’s face shows how poorly Dean is managing to control his incredulous expression. In honesty, he’s not trying too hard.

She continues anyway, her tone growing more frantic by the word. “I knew I didn’t deserve you boys. Not now, after all this time. That’s why I didn’t try sooner. I admit I’d known for a few years who you were, where you both were. It wasn’t that hard to figure out. But you had every right to hate me for what I did. And I knew from what I’d read that you _ did _ hate me, Dean. That was obvious. But... I needed to at least try.”

“And?” Dean says, unmoved. “There’s something else.” He knows a rambling half-truth when he hears one.

Mary bites at her lip before admitting. “And someone emailed me. Anonymously. Told me that you would be amenable to meeting me. Sent me Sam’s home address. I figured… maybe it was a friend of yours.”

Dean glances at Cas and Sam who look just as surprised at this new tidbit of information as Dean. 

“Why didn’t you tell us about that?” Sam asks. 

Mary shrugs nervously. “It… it didn’t seem that important?”

Even now, there’s still something she’s not telling them. 

“Okay,” Sam says, coolly. “So why talk to the press now?”

“I didn’t,” Mary says again, obviously desperate for Sam to believe her. “This... this director, he called me, took me out to lunch a few times. He said he’d seen me on stage in England, had heard I was in LA now. I was flattered, and he was charming. A bit odd maybe, but he... he was kinder to me than most people have been in this city. The last time we met, a few days ago, we had a few glasses of wine, and... and he mentioned you, Dean. He said, he said that I reminded him of you in a way, and I didn’t mean to tell him, but I guess it all just kind of spilled out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, shaking his head. 

“This director,” Cas cuts in for the first time. “What was his name?”

“Marvin... Marvin Metatron.”

“You’re not serious,” Sam growls. 

Mary’s eyes are wide. Her pallor sickly. She looks like she’s shrinking in front of Dean’s eyes. 

“You have to know who he is,” Cas says. “You would have googled him out of curiosity, surely? Made sure he was genuine, figured out his link to Dean?”

“I... I didn’t think... I’m sorry.”

“Did you think Dean’s name would help you land roles?” Sam asks. “Or that this scandal would make you famous?”

“No!” Mary shakes her head, eyes wide, eyelashes wet.

The problem with actors is you can never be quite sure when they’re putting on a show. Not if they’re any good. Not if you don’t know them well. Dean can’t say for sure how good of an actor Mary is. But he doesn’t trust her. Not at all. But then, he doesn’t trust many people. 

Sam’s not yelling but his tone is cold, anger twitching in his jaw. “Because this might win you your fifteen minutes of fame, but I promise you it won’t be fun. Not when the paps find you. And they will. They are going to hound you every minute of the day. And believe me, Pamela and I will make damn sure that Dean comes out of this squeaky clean. Do you have a publicist, Mary? Can you afford to spin this so you don’t end up painted as the cold-hearted bitch who abandoned her kids?”

Dean doesn’t miss that Sam is calling her Mary now. 

“If I were you, I’d consider leaving town,” Cas says. “While you still can.”

“Guys,” Dean hears himself say. “Calm down for a second, huh.”

Sam, Cas and Mary all look at him with varying degrees of incredulity on the faces. Dean can’t quite believe that he’s the one standing up for her either.

“I’m not saying she didn’t mess up, but we all know Marv is a lying manipulative douchebag. This is obviously more his doing than hers.”

“That may be true,” Cas says. “But the fact remains she has—”

“Made a mistake,” Dean finishes for him. “Which as someone wiser than me once said, we’ve all done.”

“Dean...” Mary shoots him a grateful smile.

Dean holds his hand up, wanting to clarify his point so no-one is under the misguided illusion he’s suddenly had a change of heart. “Whoa now, I’m not saying I forgive you. All I’m saying is this new clusterfuck might not entirely be your fault.”

Mary doesn’t stop smiling at him. 

Dean ignores her. He isn’t saying any of this for her benefit. “I know you’re mad right now, Sammy, but don’t go throwing her to the wolves too quick. She is your mom. Elle’s grandmother. Our blood. Whether I like it or not. Maybe working with her rather than against her might be an idea. I mean, we don’t even know how Marv found out about her? How he knew she was in town. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. And who sent her the email with your address in the first place, Sam? Someone out there is playing games.”

“Or perhaps, someone _ was _ playing games,” Cas says, thoughtfully. “Anonymous emails? Professional level stalking skills? I wonder if Alastair was behind them? This could certainly have been part of whatever sick game he was back to play.”

Dean shudders, a hot wave of fear washing over him at the thought of what Alastair could have been planning. Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulder. Whispers under his breath. “It’s okay. He’s dead. He’s gone. I promise.”

Sam huffs out a breath, bull-like, and turns away, his hands flexing by his sides. Dean knows him well enough to tell he needs a few seconds to calm down, reign in his temper. He shoots Mary a warning glare when she opens her mouth to speak. 

“Fine,” Sam eventually says, turning around. “But this is it, last chance, Mary. Cas will set you up with security. And I’m going to ask Pamela to call you, try and salvage this mess before the press works itself into a frenzy. But you fuck up again and you’re on your own.”

“Thank you,” Mary says. “You won’t regret giving me another chance. I promise.”

“I better not,” Sam says. “You might be my mother. But Dean is my family. He’s the one who raised me. He changed my damn diapers and taught me my first word and stopped me from hurting myself when I learned to walk. Dean made sure I didn’t go hungry. He’s the one who took me to school and helped with my homework. He protected me from the bullies and the assholes out there who thought we were easy-pickings. And trust me, living in motels and trailer parks there were a lot of skeevy assholes. Dean sacrificed everything for me over and over again, including his own damn childhood. Christ knows, he shouldn’t have had to. But he did. Without any fucking thanks. And without complaining. So, honestly, Mary, you fuck up just one more time... do anything that might hurt him? I’ll cut you off quicker than you can say selfish bitch. Understand?”

Mary nods, unable to speak around her tears.

Dean has to swallow a lump in his throat himself. Cas’s hand squeezes at the back of his neck. Sam looks at him, and nods, his mouth a firm line and an apology in his watery eyes. In the fucked-up mess that’s their lives that’s one of the nicest things that Sam has never said to him.

_ ** Dean and Cas, 2 years ago ** _

  
  


“What’s your family like, Cas?”

Cas stills on the wooden bench beside Dean. His arm doesn’t shift from where it’s draped over Dean’s shoulders but the sudden tension in his muscles makes Dean regret opening his mouth. 

“They’re… distant,” Cas eventually says. “We have a complicated relationship.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” Cas says. “You can ask me anything.”

“Anything?” Dean says, grinning just a little maniacally. 

“Anything,” Cas says, despite Deans teasing grin. “But I will expect you to spill all your dirty little secrets in return.”

“Quid pro quo, Clarice.” Dean does his best Hannibal Lector impression. From Cas’s side eye, he’s less than impressed. Perhaps the timing isn’t quite right. It’s only been two weeks since Dean was very nearly gutted by a psychopathic stalker after all. “Too soon?”

Cas nods. “Much too soon.” 

Dean leans his head down on Cas’s shoulder. Looks out across the calm blue water of the loch. The only signs of life are a couple of otters playing in the water and the geese flying overhead. The holiday cottage that Sam found them to stay in while he recuperated is as quiet and tranquil as they come. Well, other than the dozen security personnel sharing the place with them, as well as Sam and Jess. Thankfully, the term cottage is slightly misleading. The place is big enough that Cas and Dean have managed to carve out alone time quite easily. 

Sam wanted Dean to recover back home in LA, but despite his less than ideal experience in Scotland so far, Dean’s fallen in love with the place. It’s certainly a lot more restful than LA. Even if a decent coffee shop is impossible to find. 

“What about you?” Cas asks, softly. “Is Sam the only family you have? No grandparents? Aunts and Uncles?”

“Not as far as we know,” Dean returns. “Dad certainly never kept in touch with anyone. It was just the three of us. After Mom left.”

Cas waits a minute before pushing a little more. “And you’ve never been tempted to track her down?”

“No,” Dean answers flatly. “Not once. Not since I was a kid. What she did, walking out like that… leaving a six-month-old baby without a mom, that’s… there’s no excuse, y’know? I could never forgive her. Seeing her again… what would I even say to her?”

Cas’s arm tightens around Dean's shoulder, his lips brushing across the top of Dean’s head.

“Do you think that’s wrong?” Dean asks, when Cas says nothing. “Do you think I should look for her?”

“I think you should do whatever makes you happy,” Cas says. 

“You make me happy,” Dean says, making light of Cas’s noncommittal answer. “Can I do you?”

Cas snorts. “You’re such a romantic.”

Dean sits up far enough that he can press a kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. “It's what you love about me.”

Turning his head, Cas’s lips press back, full and gentle on Dean’s mouth before he replies with far more sincerity. “It’s _ one _ of the things I love about you.”

Hiding the ridiculously sappy smile on his face, Dean lays his head back down on Cas’s shoulder, content to sit for a while longer in the fading sunshine. 

“Do you think,” Cas starts to ask. “Never mind.”

“No, what?” Dean asks, curiosity piqued.

“Do you think…. you would ever want to get married? I know that after what happened between your mom and dad, marriage might seem like a… a bad idea, but if you met the right person at the right time?” Cas trails off. 

“Why, Mr. Novak, are you asking me to marry you?” Dean teases. 

“No,” Cas backtracks immediately. “Absolutely not.”

It’s strange how hurt Dean is by Cas’s swift shut-down even if it is exactly what he expected.

“Not right now anyway,” Cas adds before Dean has time to hide his inappropriate hurt behind a sarcastic quip. “I don’t think now is the right time, do you?”

They’ve only known each other for a few months, even if it does feel like a lifetime, so no, Cas is right. It’s not the time. 

“No,” Dean acquiesces. “I guess it’s not ideal.”

“But you would?” Cas pushes.

Dean thinks about it seriously for a second. Marriage, the whole white picket fence thing, it’s never felt like it’s in the cards for him. Not with all his emotional hang-ups. But now. With Cas. “Yeah,” Dean says, a soft smile lightening his voice. “Yeah, I would. Right time, right place, right person, I would.”

“Good,” Cas says, fingers brushing down Dean's arm. “That’s good to know.”

They sit in companionable silence for a few more minutes. Cas drawing Dean tight against him when the cooling air sends shivers through his body. But Dean just has to make sure of something. Not that he’s easy or desperate or anything, but he doesn’t want there to be any room for confusion.

“You get that _ you’re _ the right person for me, right?” 

  
  


**CHAPTER SEVEN**

It’s sheer fucking madness. And it’s awesome. The atmosphere is insane. And so are most of the people. Dean loves it. Despite the crowds. And the funky smell of sweat, junk food and cheap deodorant. 

“This is hell,” Cas says, staring out at the sea of people in pure horror. 

Dean chuckles. For as much as he dislikes crowds, for as much as this absurd amount of people under one roof should freak him the hell out, there something about the energy of the place, the chattering buzz of excitement, that calls like a siren to his inner fanboy. From a distance at least. 

“You are not going down there.” Cas doesn’t look like he’s joking. They’re staring down at the madness below them from a balcony, obscured from view of the vast majority of people. 

“Sweetheart, it’s my job to go down there,” Dean laughs. 

Cas takes a step forward and glares down over the ledge of the balcony. Dean’s not sure if the fear in his eyes is from the height or the swell of fans huddled down below. Or maybe it’s the giant Elmo dressed as Freddy Krueger complete with knife fingers that’s freaking him out. He’s certainly unsettling Dean. 

“It’s your job to turn up at the panel. That’s all. And only if I think it’s safe.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a killjoy, Cas. We agreed on this. We ‘compromised’.” Dean doesn’t notice he’s using Cas’s favorite finger quotes until Cas raises his eyebrow, a smirk pulling at his lips. Asshole. Dean slaps his hands back down to his sides. “Besides, no-one is even going to know it’s me.”

Cas gives him a once over, licking his lips in a way that makes Dean’s insides do funny things, and his dick twitch happily in his leather pants. 

“Trust me,” Cas says. “Whether people know it’s you or not, you’re still going to draw attention.”

Dean’s cosplay is pretty damn awesome. Some chick that Charlie knows made it for him, and she did an amazing job. It’s nothing like his real Red Hood costume, not as shiny or as professional or as damn tight. Really, it’s nothing more than leather pants, a brown leather jacket, knee-high laced black biker boots, an eye-mask that he’s wearing now and a kick-ass full mask that he’ll put on before he hits the hallways. It’s far from the fanciest or most intricate costume in town, but Dean still feels like he’s the most bad-ass geek around. 

“You like me in leather, baby?” Dean smirks. 

Instead of laughing at Dean’s lame flirting, Cas leans in close and whispers in his ear. “Later, I’m going to bend you over and fuck you while you’re wearing just those boots.”

Dean near as dammit chokes on his tongue. Cas leans away, a shit-eating grin on his face. And now Dean is realizing how tricky it is to hide a hard-on in leather pants. 

“You’re a dick,” Dean huffs, cheeks heating up as he looks around and tries to inconspicuously adjust himself in his pants. 

Cas, the teasing bastard, just winks. 

“Hey, guys,” Sam says, walking up from behind them, thankfully seemingly oblivious to Dean’s flustered state. “It’s time to get this show on the road.”

Cas sobers back up immediately. Dean’s flirty boyfriend disappearing behind his professional composure as though he’s the one slipping on a mask. Dean grabs his leather gloves and pulls them on while Cas and Sam discuss their schedule like it’s a battle plan. Dean wants to tell them to loosen up, but truthfully, he’s glad they’re both so cautious. As much as he wants to dive head first into the madness of comic-com, nerves are starting to coil in his stomach. 

Thanks to Sam and Cas’s new policy of full disclosure, Dean knows he has still been receiving threats. Mainly just from the normal garden-variety keyboard psychopaths but there is also a thread of homophobic threats that Cas is taking more seriously. So, as much as crowds don’t usually bother Dean too much, the thought of who might be hiding amongst them does make his skin crawl. 

He hasn’t had a flashback or panic attack for a few weeks now. Although he did have a tiny meltdown before his first therapist appointment a few days ago. But in the end, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Tessa seems sweet although Cas has already warned Dean, she’s a hard-ass underneath. The main thing is Dean feels comfortable talking to her. That’s a start. 

“Are you okay?” Cas breaks off his discussion with Sam to ask. “You’re a little pale.”

“I’m...” fine, Dean was going to say. But then, remembering one thing that Tessa told him, about trying to be more truthful with his emotions, with Cas at least. He stops and takes a deep breath. “I’m just a little nervous, I guess. About who might be out there.”

Dean ignores the stunned-fish expression on Sam’s face and concentrates on Cas’s hand cupping his cheek instead. “I will not leave your side. Not until you walk onto the stage.”

Cas brushes a kiss across Dean’s lips before leaning back and looking him in the eyes. Shooting Cas, a reassuring smile, Dean nods. He can do anything with Cas by his side. 

He does almost pee himself when a squeal rings out from behind him. Given Cas and Sam’s non-reaction though, he doesn’t think he has much to worry about. He turns around to see the origin of the high-pitched greeting and is immediately engulfed in a clumsy hug. Clumsy because Charlie is wearing a cosplay outfit of her own. 

“Wassup, bitches!” Charlie’s greeting is as delicate as normal, and her grin as infectious.

“Charlie, it’s good to see you. It’s been too long,” Dean says, squeezing her tight before he holds her back at arm’s length to study her outfit. 

“Let me guess,” he says. “Steampunk Ginny Weasley?”

Charlie feigns a shocked gasp. “Steampunk Hermione, Dean. Jeez, does Ginny have a badass time turner?” She holds up her necklace to let Dean see more closely. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean laughs. “It was the red hair that confused me. You look awesome though.”

Charlie grins and flicks at the brim of her hat with her wand. “Of course I do. You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Hood. But, listen...” she spares Cas and Sam a quick glance before carrying on. “You’re not mad at me, right? I mean, I know we’ve talked about my magical tracking or, well, hacking skills.” Charlie wiggles her fingers for emphasis. “But that was on the phone. And you’re a hard guy to read when I’m in the same room as you, never mind a thousand miles away.”

Dean drags her back into a quick catch and release hug. “I was never mad at you, doofus. I was mad at these idiots for dragging you into my messed-up shit all over again, especially when you were busy working on a movie. I’d never forgive myself if you got into trouble or even hurt because of me. It’s just not worth it.”

Dean had forgotten just how hard Charlie could punch. Thank God for his leather jacket. “They didn’t drag me in. You think they would make me do something I didn’t want to? You think they could, huh? And you think you’re not worth a few hours of my time? Seriously?”

“I just... I don’t want...” Dean stutters, aware he’s a few words away from Charlie wailing on him. And very aware that Cas and Sam are avidly watching. His shoulders slump under her fiery glare. “I... thank you.”

Charlie smiles and pats his arm. “Okie-dokey. Now, let’s roll, people.”

Dean slips on his full-face mask in response. 

“This is gonna be so much fun,” Charlie exclaims, waving her wand wildly around her.

Sam ducks out of her way with a shake of his head. “Or so cheesy we’ll all die of embarrassment in front of a thousand or so people.”

Sam isn’t the biggest fan of this plan Dean and Crowley cooked up. And truthfully, it is kind of lame. It took a bit of persuading, especially Cas, but Dean managed to talk both Sam and him around. And no matter what Cas says, it isn’t cheating to ask him something three seconds after Dean’s just given him the best blow job of his life. It’s simply clever timing. 

And to be honest, Dean thinks Sam and Cas probably felt a little guilty for nixing his plans to arrive on a motorcycle and spend the whole weekend fanboying. 

With Cas walking in front, looking enough like Constantine in his trench coat, suit and with his dark messy hair, to fit right in —and draw more than a few admiring glances of his own— Dean and Charlie a few steps behind and Sam behind them, they join the crowds. Cas has people in the hallway keeping an eye on them too, but with his full mask on, Dean still feels amazingly anonymous. 

Dean soaks in the atmosphere, the excitement and the insanity. People must be exhausted, what with all the lining up and battling through crowds, but there’s such a general sense of fun and acceptance in the air that, even though nerves are jittering under the surface of his skin, it’s hard not to feel infected by it. Dean stops a time or two to admire costumes and check out the stuff that Charlie is cooing over, but they steadily make their way to the hall where the Red Hood panel is close to starting. Their passes allow them to walk straight in the door, with only a few death-stares from people waiting in line outside, and then, with the lights cutting down low, they take their seats, just a few rows back from the stage. Charlie at one side of Dean and Cas at the other, Sam in a chair directly behind him. 

The MC introduces Crowley onto the stage first, followed by Idris, Chris, a couple of the producers, and Marie and Calli, two of the main writers. 

There’s a low hum of disappointment when he announces that Dean has been delayed which makes Dean smirk as he sinks further down into his chair. Almost immediately the room sinks into complete darkness and the screens behind the panel light up, and the hall goes quiet.

Even Dean’s skin pebbles at the first flash of Batman on screen, his cape fluttering behind him as he stares moodily at the flaming remains of a warehouse. The warehouse where Robin, Jason Todd, lies dead. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up at the sight of the Joker’s twisted grin and sound of his psychotic laughter echoing through the eerie silence. Then the first beat of music blasts through the hall and the audience is gasping at their first glimpse of the Red Hood in full costume. 

Crowley might be a dick, but he knows how to produce a badass promo. Although it’s mainly put together using footage that Marv shot, the trailer is a hundred times better than Marv’s original version; bolder, sharper, infinitely cooler. Dean’s almost breathless by the time it’s over. There’s a worrying second of complete silence in the hall before the audience begins cheering and whooping and Dean’s heart rate starts to calm at the same rate as Crowley’s smug grin grows.

The lights go up slightly and the panel begins. Crowley rambles on for a few minutes before the panel guests start taking questions from the floor. Dean lets a couple of people go first as planned, then, fighting to keep his hand from shaking, takes the mic that Sam discretely passes him, stands and asks his question. He feels Cas tense at his side, and Charlie nearly bubbling over with excitement at his other. 

“So, my question is for Mr. Elba,” Dean starts, trying to keep his smirk out of his voice. There’s already a whisper snaking through the hall. “Don’t you think that Batman is getting... I don’t know... kind of long in the tooth? That maybe it’s time he hung up his shiny cape and pointy ears and let someone a little younger, a little better-looking, a little better _ equipped _, take over the Superhero position in Gotham?”

Idris leans forward, elbows on the table in front of him, to talk into his mic. “I don’t know, I think Batman’s equipment is pretty bloody impressive actually.”

Beside Dean, Charlie giggles, along with most of the hall. 

“And,” Idris continues. “I’m sure Batman can still spank any pretty wannabe that might come along.”

“So,” Dean says, enjoying himself despite Sam groaning from behind him. “The fact that the Red Hood is the main star of this movie doesn’t bother you then? You don’t feel... threatened... in the manhood department?”

Idris smirks. “Sweetheart, the only department that the Red Hood threatens Batman in is the walking bow-legged department. Let me tell you, that kid walks like he’s been...”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Crowley cuts in swiftly, obviously not quite sure where Idris was planning on going with that reply. “Please welcome our very own Red Hood... Mr. Dean Winchester.”

Laughing, Dean yanks off his mask with a flourish. The hall erupting around him. He turns in a shuffling circle, waving awkwardly to the crowds behind him before making his way slowly towards the stage. He stops to take selfies and slap hands so often that Cas, shadowing him the whole way, ends up practically pushing him the last few steps. 

“Was that the lamest thing ever?” Dean says to Cas as they cross the last few feet between the front row and the stage. “Did I just look like a total dumbass?”

“No, Dean. Everyone obviously loved you,” Cas points out, as most of the crowd are still on their feet clapping.

“Maybe they just loved seeing me make a fool of myself?”

Cas stops Dean just before he jumps up onto the stage, a hand on his arm, faces inches apart. “They love you. But not more than I do.” And right there in front of hundreds of people and cameras and journalists, Cas leans in and kisses Dean square on the lips. 

For a guy who refuses to be seen as anything other than Dean’s bodyguard in public, who won’t be Dean’s plus-one for anything involving press and paparazzi, it’s a ballsy move. 

Dean’s left breathless for more than one reason. The crowd whoop and a blinding storm of cameras flash as he stares back at Cas’s pink-cheeked grin. 

“You... you kissed me,” Dean says, like an idiot.

“I’m your boyfriend,” Cas shrugs, as though he’s not done anything out of the ordinary. “And I’m proud of you. It’s about time everyone knew that.” Cas glances up at the stage as he says it, a smug tilt to his lips. Dean looks over his shoulder to see Idris wolf whistling and Crowley saluting Cas. 

“Were you marking your territory, you asshole?” 

Cas just pats his butt in reply. “Do you need a hand up onto the stage or...”

“I can do it myself, thanks,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. He jumps onto the stage closely followed by Cas who makes a hasty exit into the wings while Dean joins the rest of the crew, setting his mask down on the table in front of him and ruffling his flattened hair.

Now he’s actually on stage, Dean’s anxious heartbeat starts to calm. Performing, even when he’s only acting the role of Dean Winchester movie star, is easier than dealing with all the stresses of the publicity and attention that come as a side-effect to the job. This is the shit he signed up for. 

He laughs and jokes with Crowley and his co-stars. Idris pretend punches him and that turns into a bearhug that ends up in a burst of flashes as everyone and their best friend takes a flurry of photographs. Dean teases the writers and listens intently, or pretends to, when the producers discuss future movies in the Batman series.

Halfway through the panel there’s another promo clip for the movie, one that’s a Slipknot-concert eardrum-shattering level of loud and ends with Jason Todd astride his motorcycle, speeding out of an exploding building, fiery debris raining down around him. It’s pretty fucking spectacular.

Dean can’t help but look into the stage wings whilst it’s playing. Cas’s attention is focused on the crowd rather than the big screen or the stage. But seeing him right there, so close, settles the last of Dean’s nerves. 

The rest of the panel is thrown back open to more questions. There are a couple of interesting ones, and a couple of damn weird ones that have Dean choking on his water. One about Marv that Crowley takes great delight in answering, somehow managing to demolish the director’s character and ability without actually saying anything scandalous or libelous. Dean has to hide his grin behind his hand.

The panel is drawing to a close, only time for one, maybe two, last questions. Everyone in the room is pretty relaxed, the atmosphere positive and light. Then suddenly, with one question, the mood flips.

The guy who’s just taken the mic in his hand is dressed as Batman, full rigid face mask, only his mouth and eyes visible. The way the suit hangs on his tall frame, somehow makes him appear more sinister than heroic. When he speaks, it’s obvious he’s trying to make his voice sound deeper. He’s still at least an octave higher than Idris’ Batman though. 

“My question is for Winchester. According to the newspapers you had several melt-downs during filming. I was wondering whether that had anything to do with what happened in Scotland when you were supposedly abducted or was it more to do with your mom turning up again after she abandoned you?”

Dean’s been asked inappropriate questions before but that one really does leave him gobsmacked. A low murmur of disapproval runs through the hall. 

Taking a sip of water, Dean shakes his head at Crowley who’s obviously all set to answer for him. Sometimes the best way to deal with this crap is just to laugh it off. “Meltdown? I don’t know about that, man. The only thing in danger of melting on set was my junk in those leather pants. Honestly, you don’t want to know about the chafing.”

His unexpected reply bursts the bubble of tension in the room, a ripple of laughter replacing the shocked whispers.

The dipshit with the mic is refusing to give it up though, his voice growing higher as his frustration comes through. “I heard that more than once you had to be physically restrained from attacking Marv Metatron. That the real reason he quit the movie was because you—”

“Metatron didn’t quit the movie,” Crowley cuts in. “He was fired. And that had nothing to do with Dean.”

Sweat is dripping down Dean’s back now, the heat from the spotlights suddenly overwhelming. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, which is starting to feel like it’s trying to strangle him, then takes another sip of water, his hand trembling when he places the glass back down on the table. The fact that the guy’s face is hidden behind an unmoving mask is starting to freak Dean out. The dude could be anyone. A tiny terrified voice in Dean’s head whispers that it could be Alastair. 

Common sense tells him it isn’t. That it can’t be. That this asshole’s voice doesn’t sound anything like the nasally words Alastair still hisses in Dean’s nightmares. 

And Alastair is dead. Cas said so. 

“Of course, Marv was fired,” the guy snorts, edging away from a security guard who’s beelining towards him. “That’s what the studio would say, isn’t it? If they wanted to hide that one of their so-called stars was cracking up. I guess when you’ve slept your way to the top it must be easier to keep your job.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas’s posture change. There’s not a single muscle relaxed in his body, and he’s already edging out of the darkness of the wings towards the lights of the stage. His intent to jump between Dean and this moron obvious. 

The rest of the audience is shifting uncomfortably. Dean feels like he’s in the middle of a slow-motion car wreck with a thousand bystanders looking on. 

“Look, dude,” Dean says, as affably as he can manage, in an attempt to deescalate the situation. “You’re obviously not a fan, but maybe we can—”

“A fan?” The guy scoffs, his walk towards the stage gaining pace as two security guards close in on him. “Not of yours, you cocksucking pansy. You’re nothing but trash. No wonder your mother left and your brother hates you.”

That’s the last insult he manages before the venue’s security people finally pounce on him, and the entire audience goes batshit. It’s chaos as the guy is bundled out of the hall, spitting obscenities the whole way. Some people are yelling back at him, others are on their feet.

Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. He startles badly when someone touches his shoulder, his hand jerks sending his glass flying, water spilling across the table, soaking into the tablecloth.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, lips brushing his ear.

Looking around and seeing Cas crouching behind him, Dean’s spiking nerves soothe almost immediately. He manages a crooked smile, and a shaky “Yeah.”

Cas’s fingers squeeze his shoulder, his eyes radiating calm. “Do you want me to pull you out of here?” 

Dean shakes his head. Even though there’s nothing he’d like more. 

“Are you sure?” Cas asks. The MC is asking people to sit back down, appealing for calm. Dean nods. “We’re nearly done,” he says. “I should stay.”

Cas doesn’t try to argue, trusting Dean to know his own limits. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder again and then steps back. He doesn’t retreat further than he has to, stays right on the stage at Dean’s back. Dean can’t say that he minds.

He shakes off his cast-mates concerns, apologizes to Idris for the water that dripped into his lap and makes a lame joke to the fans about audience participation as everyone settles back down. The rest of the panel passes in a blur, and ends in another movie clip that leaves the fans cheering.

Sam and Charlie are waiting for him when Dean walks off stage, Cas right behind him. Sam hauls him into a hug. “You alright?”

Dean shrugs. “Fine. Everyone seemed to love the movie clips. Well, apart from the homophobic douchebag, obviously.”

Charlie slides in for a hug once Sam let’s him go. “The promos were awesome. And so were you. That guy seriously had a screw loose.”

“And a weapon apparently,” Cas says, finishing a call and slipping his cell back into his coat pocket. 

Dean’s stomach twists. “He had a weapon?”

“What kind of weapon? Jesus, how the hell did he make it through the doors with a goddamn weapon? Don’t they check for that shit?” Sam growls. 

Cas shakes his head, mouth an unhappy line. He looks like he wants to punch someone to find out the answer to that question. “Security are holding him for now. I want to go and see what his story is before the police take him away.” Cas turns to Dean, his hand coming up to gently squeeze the back of his neck, reassuring, grounding. “Stay with Sam and Charlie, and my men, okay?”

Dean nods, tilts his head to accept a kiss from Cas, and tries not to feel strangely abandoned when he strides away, purpose in every step and anger in the iron rod of his spine. 

To be honest, the thought of wandering around comic-con incognito has lost its appeal. There are just too many people around for comfort now. And apparently not all of them are fond of him. In fact, if he didn’t still have commitments, he’d be happy to leave now. Crowley would no doubt kill him if he bailed early though. 

Sam, as usual, seems to read his mind. “We can leave right now, if you want. I’m happy to tell Crowley to go screw himself after that fiasco.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “Let’s just do this, huh?”

“Dean, Dean, Dean...” Crowley appears as though simply uttering his damned name summoned him. “Your presence can always be relied upon to provide us with some extra drama.”

“And publicity,” Sam points out, icily. 

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “I hope you aren’t implying I had anything to do with that spectacle back there?”

“No,” Dean sighs, scrubbing his hand over his jaw. “No, of course he’s not.”

“Good,” Crowley says, exchanging scowls with Sam. “Now, if we’re all quite finished angsting about our manpain, can we go out there and sell this movie?”

“Sure,” Dean says, placing his hand on the center of Sam’s chest. Cas’s dislike of Crowley is definitely starting to rub off on Sam whose face is thunderous. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.” And boy, does Dean want to leave. 

Next on the agenda is autographs. Sam and Charlie stay glued to Dean’s side the entire time as they’re escorted to the DC booth. Even there they hover behind him, and Dean doesn’t miss how Idris and Chris stand close on either side of him as the fans start to troop by. Security don’t even pretend to appear unthreatening. As much as he tries not to let what happened in the hall spoil his mood, it’s hard to hide that he’s still shaken up. 

Dean feels bad for the vast majority of fans who just want to come out and have a good time, grab an autograph and a photo if they can. He knows they spend a fuckton of money doing this, and all it takes is a few selfish idiots, or one dickwad with a chip on his shoulder, to spoil the day for everyone. 

A shy smile and a high five from a pint-sized fully-caped Robin perched on his Batman-Dad’s shoulders, helps shake off some of his gloom. And a hug from a mini-stormtrooper relieves at least half of the tension across his shoulders. By the time the last person of many has told him they love him and they hope he’s okay after what happened, he’s actually feeling pretty good again. Relaxed enough that his smile is almost real. 

“So,” Sam says, leading Dean from the booth. “Cas called. Apparently, that nutcase was one of Marv’s buddies. He worked on the movie until Crowley fired him. Turns out his weapon was just a replica. Cas is still talking to him, but he thought we’d want to know that he’s just a harmless wacko with a grudge.”

That does help Dean breathe slightly easier. 

Sam too apparently, as he’s walking a normal distance from Dean now rather than staying attached to his side. “You’ve got a few interviews and photos and then we’re done.”

“Did you see the tiny Wonder Woman?” Charlie asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “She was freaking adorable. And that Iron Man outfit was insane!”

“Hey, listen, Charlie,” Dean says, suddenly realizing how not fun this must be for someone who isn’t being paid to be stuck by his side. “You don’t have to hang around with me all day. Why don’t you go have a walk around?”

Charlie’s smile falters. “What? No, I mean, I don’t want to just leave you and Sam.”

Dean stops walking, earning disgruntled complaints from the staff trying to hustle them along. He hauls Charlie into a quick one-armed hug. “You’ve done enough. We’ll catch up later, I promise. I know there’s still stuff you want to see and there’s no way Cas and Sam are gonna let me wander around after all this.”

“You sure?” Charlie asks, but she’s already got her cell in her hand, typing out a message in a quick blur of thumbs. “Dorothy is around here somewhere, but I’m not going to just abandon you when—”

“Go on, Dumbledork, scram,” Dean says, giving her a careful shove. “But no more drunken tattoos.”

“No promises,” she laughs, and gives him a peck on the cheek, then wipes a smear of make-up off his face, before skipping away with a friendly threat to post a video on Instagram of him singing karaoke if he doesn’t call her later. 

Dean wracks his brain, the whole way to the next room, trying to remember when she managed to video him singing karaoke. 

“There’s going to be photographs before we hit the press room, okay?” Sam says, leading Dean into a room that’s set up and waiting to go, lights on and a photographer standing there with a camera already in his hands. 

Dean’s answer escapes him as he spots the motorcycle in the middle of the space. 

“Does it work?” he asks, hands smoothing down over the leather saddle. It’s identical to the ones they used in the movie, he can’t see a single difference. It’s just as beautiful. 

“Yep,” the photographer says. “Perfect working condition. You want to try it out?”

Dean doesn’t need to be asked again. He spends twice as long as he normally would shooting with the photographer because, damn… the bike is hot. They take a few pictures of him wearing the full face mask, and quite a few more with him just wearing the eye mask. Then the photographer persuades him to take that off too and takes some with him looking more like Dean Winchester than the Red Hood. The photographer is funny and friendly, and knows a lot about bikes and in the end, Sam almost has to drag him away.

“Dean, you’re already running late,” he complains, glancing at his watch for at least the third time in the last minute. 

The thought of hitting the chaos of the press room doesn’t enthuse Dean. He’d happily spend the rest of the day draped over the bike for the photographer rather than deal with that bullshit. Even though they’re here to talk about the movie, he’s bound to be hit with more questions about his mom and Sam than the Red Hood. 

“Dean,” Sam says, his name snapped with the impatience of every school teacher that Dean ever had. 

Dean rolls his eyes, feeling the pout unwittingly form on his lips before he can control it. The photographer takes a flurry of shots with a laugh, and Dean knows he’s going to see that online someday soon. 

Before Sam can comment, Cas’s ringtone sounds from his pocket. Sam holds his finger up to signal he needs a minute and turns to answer the call.

“Hey, man,” Dean hops quickly off the bike and approaches the photographer.

“Oh, no,” the guy grins. “Those last shots were gold; I’m not deleting them.”

Dean laughs. “Nah, I don’t care. There’s way worse out there, trust me. But, listen, I couldn’t bum a cigarette, could I?” The tell-tale scent of nicotine lingers on the guy’s clothes. There’s no way he doesn’t have smokes on him. 

“What? I mean... sure.” He takes a packet of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket and shakes one loose, handing it to Dean. “I didn’t think you smoked.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. “I don’t. Not really. But... well, it’s been a stressful morning. I just need a few minutes to settle my nerves, you know? Is there a bathroom or somewhere I could...”

The photographer gives him a knowing look. “There’s a men’s room in the hallway out there, just around the corner, second door on the left. If your brother won’t kick your ass.”

Dean glances towards the door the guy is pointing to and winks. “Well, if he doesn’t catch me, he won’t.”

Dean successfully slips out of the room without drawing Sam’s attention. Out of the corner of his eye he spots one of Cas’s security team start to follow him, but the dude is a big guy and standing across at the other side of the room by the door they came in, and Dean’s got a mean turn of speed when he wants. Maybe it’s childish, but he doesn’t want anyone ratting him out to Cas about his smoking. 

There are people milling about in the hallway, but it’s not an area that’s open to the general public, so Dean’s safe from being mobbed as he dashes the few steps around the corner and down the hall to the men’s room. He knows he’s not got long before Sam starts losing his shit so he quickly nudges open the bathroom window on its latch. Then hunts through his pockets for his lighter. Which of course is when he realizes he doesn’t have on his own leather jacket. It’s the cosplay one. The one that doesn’t have a lighter in the pocket.

“Damnit,” he says out loud, immediately tensing when he hears the bathroom door open behind him. He’s expecting it to be Sam or maybe a security guard checking on him.

“You want a light?” a voice says.

Dean exhales in relief. “Sure, thanks, pal,” he says, turning around. 

He stops, hand poised midair when the owner of the voice comes into view. 

The guy is wearing a Joker costume. A cheap polyester thing, tight around his waist, and a good few inches too long, the pants pooling down over his shoes. Rather than the usual Joker make-up, the guy is wearing a plastic mask. One that hides his face entirely. Dean tries not to let that freak him out. 

“Cool costume, man. You a Joker fan?”

“You could say that,” he replies, fingers reaching inside his jacket. Dean holds out his hand for the guy’s lighter and then blinks in surprise when he produces a knife instead. 

“Is that a replica?” Dean asks, swallowing hard and reminding himself he’s at comic-con. That this weird crap is perfectly normal. That this isn’t Alastair. “It’s pretty realistic.”

The guy laughs, muffled and sinister enough behind the mask that Dean’s skin breaks out in goosebumps. “No, Dean, it’s not a replica.” 

Then he takes a swing. Dean, caught unawares, stands there gawking like a fucking idiot while the guy slashes at him. The knife slices right through the sleeve of his jacket. Dean stares at his arm, numb, not believing this is happening. The guy doesn’t hesitate before striking again. Jabs the knife towards Dean’s belly. It doesn’t go deep, but it does break flesh. And the flash of pain is enough to wake Dean up. The third thrust of the knife is aimed more viciously, but this time Dean manages to dodge back out of the way. 

Unfortunately, in doing so he stumbles right into a stall door which gives way under his back and sends him tumbling to the floor, cracking his head on the toilet seat on the way down.

Gazing up at his attacker from the floor is like the worst of his nightmares being realized. An awful mix of real life and movie horror. The very real fear and pain of his time spent with Alastair woven into the emotions he dragged to the surface as Jason Todd, dying at the hands of The Joker. That grotesque face laughing as the life seeped from his beaten body. 

Dean’s fight or flight response seems to be malfunctioning, because all he seems capable of doing is lying there on the bathroom floor struggling to breathe. 

The guy kicks his leg and laughs, looming over him.

Dean isn’t really seeing him. It’s Alastair grinning face that’s blinking behind his eyelids. Scarred into his mind. 

“Not so cocky now, are you? Without your bodyguard and brother to fight your battles.”

“What?” Dean gasps out, not sure he heard the muffled voice right. Not sure his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. 

The guy swears and pushes the mask up so it’s sitting on top of his head. “I said, not so cocky now without your brother and your bodyguard, are you?”

Dean stares up at him. “Marv?”

Metatron smirks. “Who else did you think it was?” 

Dean blinks. Fucking Marv. With a knife. 

At some point over the past couple of months the little weasel’s egomania has apparently descended into full on mania. The dude’s obviously cracking up. Seeing Marv’s face looking down at him brings Dean sharply back to his senses. He’s sure as shit not going to lie there like a fucking damsel in distress and let a douchebag who can’t even make a decent comic book movie gut him. Dean has standards, damnit. 

He’s still awkwardly pretzeled up, halfway in and halfway out of a bathroom stall though. He figures getting upright, without handing Marv the chance to do something stupid —stupider— with that knife seems like a priority.

As soon as he makes a move, Marv kicks him hard in the leg. Dean lets out a grunt of pain, but doesn’t let the blow slow him down. Using the stall door to lever himself up, he blocks Marv from reaching him with the knife. It’s awkward as hell, and Dean lurches to his feet, swaying like a drunken sailor, shoulder banging against the stall wall. It’s not the graceful maneuver he would have pulled off in a movie, but this is real life and he’s upright. At this point that’s all that matters.

Once on his feet he lunges out of the stall, shouldering past Marv and dodging the knife with more luck than skill. Within seconds, Marv is flying at him again. The knife catches Dean on the arm as he ducks out of the way, it stings like a bitch but he thinks his jacket took the brunt of the damage. Dean makes a dash towards the door, but Marv, yelling in rage, is right behind him. Not keen on the idea of a knife at his back, Dean spins around just in time for Marv to crash into him, taking them both back down to the floor. Dean’s head cracking against tile this time. 

Marv plunges the knife towards Dean’s belly. Reflexes working despite the bang on his head, Dean grabs his wrist before the tip does much more than scratch him. His fingers dig into Marv’s wrist, knuckles turning white as he squeezes with every ounce of strength he has. He doesn’t let go until the knife drops from Marv’s hand. Then, with a great deal of satisfaction, Dean punches the sonofabitch right in the face.

The punch is not quite as effective as it would be in an action flick. He doesn’t knock Marv out or anything. In his defense, it’s impossible to put much power behind a punch when you’re lying flat on the floor. Marv’s lip does burst open quite spectacularly though, something which Dean doesn’t have much time to appreciate before Marv’s throwing punches of his own, smacking Dean with bruising precision across the jaw. 

Without the knife to worry about, Dean’s actually not too far away from enjoying himself in a weird kind of way. Fights in bathroom stalls are a bit of a deja-vu from Dean’s misspent youth. More than once he’d hustled the wrong guy playing pool and ended up wrestling on bathroom floors far less hygienic than this. 

And there’s no doubt in his mind that he can totally take Marv. The guy eats donuts for breakfast for God’s sake. He uses a golf cart rather than walk around the studio lot. 

Before he has the chance to prove it, the door bursts open and there’s a shout of “Dean!”

Dean, like a dumbass, automatically glances up to see Cas standing in the doorway. Marv uses his distraction to take another swing, catching Dean right across the jaw again. It catches him unawares and hurts like a mother. And somehow gives Marv the time to dive for the knife lying on the floor a few feet away. 

In a day when he surely made a lot of mistakes, that right there is Metatron’s biggest. 

Cas is on him in less than a heartbeat.

If he hadn’t gone for the knife, Cas probably, maybe, _ possibly _, would have been able to control his temper. 

As it is, Marv is lucky Dean’s there to stop Cas from killing him. And he sure as hell doesn’t stop Cas for Marv’s benefit. 

“Cas,” Dean says. 

Marv is flat on his back now. Cas straddling him, throwing punch after punch. The guy’s face is starting to look like mulch.

“Cas!” Dean grabs Cas’s arm as he lifts it back to land yet another punch. “Stop. You’re going to kill him.”

“He tried to kill you, Dean,” Cas growls, not taking his eyes off Metatron who’s whimpering underneath the blood. 

“But he didn’t,” Dean points out, struggling to hold on to Cas’s arm. “Cas, please.”

Cas finally turns his head towards Dean. His eyes are wild though. Dean doesn’t know what he’s seeing but from his own experience he’s certain it’s not him. Not here. Not now.

“He’ll kill you,” Cas says, voice low. “If I don’t end this now, he’ll kill you.”

“Cas,” Dean pleads desperately. “Baby, please, this isn’t Alastair. He’s just a nobody with a knife.”

Cas jerks his arm free from Dean’s grip, his gaze laser-focused on Marv. “I failed you once, Dean. I will not fail you again.”

“No,” Dean says, throwing himself at Cas, shoving him off Marv’s beaten body, and rolling them across the floor so Dean’s lying on top of him. “You’ve never failed me. Not once. You’ve always saved me. Always been there for me.”

Cas flips them over so fast, Dean doesn’t have time to blink. Cas stares down at him, a spatter of Marv’s blood across his cheek. Dean reaches up to wipe it away, but Cas catches his hand in vice-tight grip. “Cas,” Dean says again. “This isn’t you.”

Cas blinks. And shivers. A tremor rippling through his body so hard that Dean feels his own heart stutter. 

“Dean,” Cas says, a shadow of his normal gravel-pitched voice. Dean forces himself to relax under Cas. Let’s his muscles go lax. He winks up at his boyfriend like they’re at home lying by the pool rather than on a cold bathroom floor.

“Hey, you back with me, cowboy?”

“I...” Cas starts and stops, releasing Dean’s arm like he’s holding a hand grenade. “Fuck.”

“Maybe not here, sweetheart,” Dean smirks, aiming for casual and flirty but probably missing by a mile. “I’m a little too old these days for fucking on bathroom floors but maybe we can try this wrestling thing out back home.”

“Dean,” Cas says again, the note of disapproval in his voice indicating better than anything that he’s back in control of himself. 

They both startle when the men’s room door crashes open again. Security and Sam, and quite possibly a marching brass band going by the noise, charging into the room.

Which was barely big enough for the three people already splayed out on the floor. 

“What the fuck? _ Marv _?” Sam spits. Which is apparently the signal for all hell to break loose. 

It takes a while for the dust to settle. For the cops to take Marv away. To take statements. Cas shouldn’t be in trouble for the state of Marv’s bloodied face. Not considering Dean’s injuries, and Marv’s insane ramblings. And the knife.

Cas and Sam are still talking to the police when Dean retreats back to the small studio which has been cleared of the photographer and his crew but not the bike. He strips out of his ruined jacket and shirts to let a paramedic clean his wounds and patch him up. He has a couple of eggs on his head but his brain isn’t rattling any worse than normal. The cuts on his arm and belly aren’t deep and should heal well enough. These ones shouldn’t even leave a scar. The paramedic doesn’t make a fuss when Dean declines to go to the hospital. She’s probably relieved she doesn’t have to fight her way out of the building with Dean by her side. 

Dean isn’t much looking forward to it himself. 

He’s still half-naked, sitting astride the motorcycle, leaning over the handlebars and daydreaming about driving out of the building in pure Red Hood style, when Cas finally appears. His coat and jacket have been discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up. There are still spots of blood visible on his white shirt. 

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself, handsome,” Dean says. “How you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Cas says, stretching out his hand unconsciously, the knuckles scraped but no longer bloodied. “How are you?”

“Golden now you're here.” Dean winks.

Cas looks at the dressings patchworked across his skin. “And your wounds?”

“Nothing serious.” Dean brushes off Cas’s unnecessary concern. “Just a few scratches.”

Cas squints at him, unconvinced. “There was blood, you— ”

Dean stops him right there. “I’m fine.”

Cas still isn’t happy. “I must have scared you… back there, with Metatron?”

“Hell no.” Dean smiles. “Takes more than you going all terminator on Marv’s ass to scare me.”

Cas sticks his hands in his pockets, shoulders drooping disconsolately.

“You didn’t scare me,” Dean repeats. “I swear. You never could, Cas. I know you, man.”

“I’m so sorry. I lost control, when I saw him go for the knife,” Cas rambles on, not listening to Dean’s assurances. “If you hadn’t stopped me—”

Dean doesn’t let him finish. “Cas, he was going to kill me. You, too, if he could have. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did pound him to a bloody pulp. The only reason I stopped you is because I knew you’d beat yourself up worse afterwards. And trust me, that lowlife talentless piece of crap sure ain’t worth losing any sleep over.”

“But, still, I—”

“Nope.” Dean shakes his head. “But nothing. Get your ass over here, good lookin’.”

Dean sits up and shuffles forward on the bike, jerking his head to the side so Cas takes the hint.

Cas sighs as though it’s the biggest effort in the world to climb onto the motorcycle behind Dean, but he does it anyway, gently wrapping his arms around Dean’s bare stomach and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

Dean hums contentedly, and relaxes back into Cas’s arms. “You think we could steal the bike? Ride out of here like Butch and Sundance?”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid did not ride anywhere on a motorcycle,” Cas points out as pedantic as ever. 

“They totally would if they were around now,” Dean counters. 

“Regardless, I do not think we want to go out like Butch and Sundance,” Cas notes wryly. “They didn’t exactly get a happy ending.”

“True,” Dean acknowledges. “It would have been hot if they had though. I wouldn’t have minded watching Redford give Newman a happy ending. God, I don’t know which of them I had a bigger crush on when I was a horny teenager. The nights I — “

“Dean,” Cas scolds, cutting him off, just like Dean knew he would. “And no, we’re not stealing the bike. I think that would garner more attention than leaving like normal people through the back door.”

Cas may have a point. 

Dean still huffs though. “So, no dodging the paps. No leaving in a blaze of glory. No Butch and Sundance. No Thelma and Louise. No Bonnie and Clyde. No—”

Cas pinches his side. “These people were all criminals and all died.”

“Thelma and Louise weren’t exactly—”

“Died, Dean,” Cas repeats firmly. 

“So, if we aren’t going out in a blaze of glory, do I at least get my happy ending?” Dean asks, shivering when Cas mouths a kiss to his nape. 

“I’ll make sure of it,” Cas promises, his breath warm against the shell of Dean’s ear.

Dean wriggles his butt backwards against Cas’s crotch. Two can play the teasing game. Cas’s hand drops to his hips holding him firmly in place. “I think we should perhaps leave before you torture me any further with all this naked skin and your ass in those leather pants.”

“Not the time or place, huh?” Dean says breathily, the hot touch of Cas’s fingers to his hips suddenly making his pants a whole lot tighter.

“Unfortunately not,” Cas says, although the way his nips at Dean’s earlobe is hardly discouraging.

“Dean,” Cas says, a second later when it becomes apparent that neither of them is keen on moving any time soon. “Earlier…”

“Don’t you dare apologize again, Cas, I swear to god,” Dean warns. 

“No, I wasn’t going to, although I am sorry.” 

“Cas—”

“I was going to say, earlier, when I kissed you, in front of everyone, you didn’t mind?”

“What? No! God, I wish you’d kiss me like that all the time.”

“You don’t worry it would hurt your career? Flaunting the fact that you’re in a relationship with a man?”

Dean thought Cas knew how he felt about this. How little he cared about what anyone else might think. He thought they were past this. “Hell, no. It’s not like it’s a big secret. I love you. Screw what anyone else thinks.”

Cas hums thoughtfully against the side of Dean’s neck. His fingers flexing against Dean’s hips, digging in so hard it’s almost painful. His voice is weird when he speaks next, dropping to a barely audible whisper. “Dean…”

Dean tenses, his hands curling tight around the handlebars and heart rate skipping to double time. 

“Will you marry me?”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. His brain short circuiting. That’s not what he was expecting to hear. “Will I what now?” 

“Will you marry me?” Cas repeats, his voice, if possible, even tighter. The words growled against Dean’s pebbling skin.

“I… yes. Yes… of fucking course I will,” Dean laughs, almost falling off the motorcycle as he twists around to look at Cas. To make sure he’s serious.

Cas’s face flits through a multitude of emotions, but ends in a wide grin that would make Dean’s heart skip a beat if it wasn’t already having palpitations. It’s a wonder he hasn’t keeled over with a coronary yet. He tangles his arms around Cas’s neck, presuming that Cas will save them both from toppling to the floor in an expensive crunch of metal.

“You will?” Cas asks, eyes crinkling at the corners, and cheeks tinged pink. 

Dean can’t resist kissing the surprise from Cas’s lips. “Of course I will, you idiot.”

They haven’t talked about marriage, not really. But Dean has never thought about his future not having Cas in it. Cas is it for him. Even if he wasn’t always convinced that Cas could possibly feel the same way. 

“I love you,” Cas says. “Every time I think I might lose you, it feels as though I’m free falling, in danger of crashing to the ground, losing everything. I don’t think you know how much you mean to me. How much I need you.”

“You got me, Cas.” Dean has to talk around the swelling of emotion in his throat, unused to hearing Cas wear his heart on his sleeve quite as blatantly as this. “You’re not getting rid of me. Not ever.”

They kiss like it’s the first time. Like they’re just discovering how magical the press of their lips is. And then Dean is almost tying himself into a knot attempting to crawl into Cas’s lap.

The slow topple of the motorcycle somehow manages to catch them both off guard despite the fact it was the most predictable thing in the world.

They end up in an undignified heap on the floor, giggling like idiots but somehow mainly unsquashed by the bike. Cas immediately starts checking Dean to make sure he isn’t hurt, but if anything, his fingers brushing across Dean’s skin just makes Dean giggle harder.

He does look up when the door opens, Sam’s worried expression turning to fond exasperation. He closes the door firmly behind him, leaning back on it, crossing his arms over his chest, and shaking his head at the pair of them. “Should I even ask?”

“We’re getting hitched.” Dean grins, hiccupping as he tries to prevent another unmanly giggle from escaping. 

“Of course, you are,” Sam rolls his eyes. “That explains how you ended up fondling each other underneath a motorcycle that you managed to crash despite it being stationary.”

“Sam,” Cas says, incredibly serious as he attempts to haul himself and an uncooperative Dean into a more vertical position. “I would very much like to marry your brother if you have no objections.”

Dean elbows Cas in the ribs, but his smile is in no danger of fading. “Hey, don’t be asking my kid brother for my hand in marriage, asshole.”

“Well, as long as you promise to treat him right, I don’t have any objections to you marrying my pretty princess of a brother,” Sam says, ignoring Dean’s squawking complaints. 

“Don’t you worry about that, Sammy.” Dean smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Cas knows how to treat me right. In fact, just a second ago he promised me a happy ending. So maybe you should beat it before we—”

Cas slaps his hand over Deans mouth just as Sam scrunches up his nose.

Both of them complaining in unison. “Dean!”

It’s not an ending, not nearly, but Dean’s as happy as he’s ever been.

**_Finis _ **

** _ Thanks for reading!_**

** _  
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